


Bloodlines

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Because...blood magic, Blood Magic, Cheating, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Fanart, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love Triangles, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Sexual Content, Psychological Torture, Sky Pirates, Theon being a bit of a dick, This is pretty much a YA adventure novel tbh, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-02 04:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 73,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12719310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: In a world where islands float in the sky, alchemy creates wondrous mechanical marvels, and blood magic binds ancient family lines, two boys' lives are inextricably linked when Robb Stark saves Theon Greyjoy's life...at a cost.Now, the magic that holds up the world is weakening. Theon is tasked with finding a lost Bloodline before it's too late, with no promises that his quest will prove successful even if he completes it. Not to mention that what andwhohe finds at the end of the world may just threaten his Bond with Robb.





	1. PART I: HEART AND BLOOD

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, again. Long time no see.
> 
> Sorry if I'm spamming anyone's inbox. I posted this briefly earlier, then got cold feet and deleted. I really, _really_ hate publishing incomplete work, and I'm not even sure if I'll get around to finishing this since I've been so busy lately. But I haven't posted in a while, so I'm going to go ahead and post Part I (what I have written so far) for now.
> 
> The prologue is a slightly edited version of the chapter I posted in [Vagrant Stories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11525775/chapters/26202225).

PROLOGUE

* * *

 NED

 

The western wall of the palace damaged, fire threatening the neighboring streets and their inhabitants, and an inconsolable wife. “ _Please_ tell me you have some good news for me,” Eddard Stark sighed as his captain of the guard approached.

“My King, My Queen.” Rodrik Cassel took to his knee, the golden chains on his aiguillettes clinking and he bent forward. “Counts are still being tallied, but it appears we suffered ten fatalities—nine civilians and one guard who took a blade to the chest chasing after the pirates.”

Catelyn gripped the iron armrests of her throne, making her knuckles stand out white against her skin. “Monsters,” she muttered. No one hated pirates more than Queen Catelyn Stark of Winterfell Island. No one had more _reason_ to hate them.

“They…” Cassel paused and seemed to be studying his boots with renewed interest. “They escaped, My Queen. We gave chase, but they…” He trailed off.

Ned feared his wife would break either her hands or the armrest; he was not sure which would give first. “ _Any_ good news, Rodrik?” he prompted.

Cassel got to his feet. “We…were able to capture one, My King. Alive.”

Ned nodded and dropped his hand. It wasn’t good news, per se, but it was something. “Bring them in.”

Two uniformed guards came in carrying a shell-shocked young man between them. And he was young, hardly much older than Robb, Ned guessed, so not really a man at all. The boy’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the largely empty throne room, the velvet drapery, the carved and gilded ornamentation of every surface, and, finally, the King and Queen themselves seated on the raised dais. He didn’t so much as struggle as he was thrown to the ground, stumbling, landing on his knees.

One of the guards found it necessary to level his saber at the nape of the boy’s neck, but Cassel grabbed hold of the man’s arm and forced him to lower his blade. “Careful, you don’t want to cut that one.”

Ned considered that. “Greyjoy?” he asked.

The boy looked up, eyes wide, jaw clamped tight.

“You’re a Greyjoy?” Ned repeated. “You have the Greyjoy Bloodline?”

The boy nodded. So, not just any random pirate, but a prince. Though the boy had probably not been leading anyone. Most likely his first raid.

Catelyn stood. “I won’t have a Greyjoy in my home,” she said with a vicious cutting motion of her hand. “Take him, Rodrik. Take him and throw him off the edge of the island. Feed him into the Core.”

The boy looked stricken at her words, as well he might. “Please.” His first words. He clasped his hands together and bent his head to meet the floor’s carpeting. “Please don’t drop me over the edge. M-my father will pay you for my return. He’ll return everything he stole, I swear it.”

“Can he return the lives he stole?” Catelyn hissed. “Can he undo the damage he’s done to our city? Can he bring my father back? No, if your father is a Greyjoy, then he has nothing to offer that we will accept. I want this wretch out of my sight, Rodrik. I don’t care what cliffside you choose, but do it and do it now.”

“Calm yourself, Cat.” Ned placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. “You sound like your sister.”

That, at least, caught her attention. “I’m not fond of it,” she said. The tension in her shoulder gave way, faintly. “I wouldn’t call for such a barbaric execution, but he _cannot_ be allowed to draw blood, Ned. My father underestimated the Greyjoy Bloodline, and you know what that earned him.”

“I…I’ve never used my Bloodline to hurt anyone, my Lady.” The boy didn’t dare raise his head, so his voice was muffled into the ground. “I’ve never…I didn’t…I’m no pirate, no true pirate. That’s why they left me behind, My Lady.”

“More lies and platitudes,” Catelyn said.

Ned was inclined to agree. How quickly the boy changed his tune. _My father will pay anything to have me_ back to _My father left me behind_. Not that Ned could blame him. No one knew just how long a person fell before the Core’s fire finally grew hot enough to kill, but by some estimates, it could be hours. Truly a horrific fate for one so young.

“Rodrik,” he said.

The captain of the guard snapped to attention. “My King.”

“Bring me my pistol.”

The boy slumped on the ground in defeat, burying his face in the crook of his arm. Ned could hear muffled sobbing as Rodrik hurried to fetch the weapon that would end the boy’s life. As a father, it tugged on his heart, but truly, this was the kinder option.

“Ned,” Catelyn hissed. “You can’t.”

“A bullet to the back of his head,” he said. “It will be quick. He won’t feel a thing and he will not have a chance to use his Bloodline.”

The boy sobbed harder.

Clipped footsteps ran down the hall, too light and quick to be Cassel returning with the sword. Ned frowned when, a moment later, the runner rounded the corner to reveal his eldest son. The boy was supposed to be with his siblings in the safe room; Ned had not given Nan the go-ahead to let them leave. He would need to speak with the old woman later, when there were less pressing matters to attend to.

Robb froze in the doorway to the throne room, clearly caught off-guard by the guards and soldiers all gathered here.

“Father, are the pirates gone? I saw fire in the port.” He took a step forward, then stopped again when he saw the other boy on the floor. The Greyjoy boy lifted his head, and for a moment their eyes met. Robb stared at him, swallowed thickly, then turned back to Ned. “Father, what…?”

“Out!” Catelyn cried. “Out, right now. This boy is dangerous. You shouldn’t be here. I told you to—”

 “I saw Rodrik getting your pistol,” Robb interrupted. “You’re not…going into battle, are you?” Then, more softly, “Again?”

Catelyn clicked her tongue. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“She’s right, Robb. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll talk later.”

“My Lord.”

Ned looked up, as did Catelyn and Robb, at Cassel’s return. The pistol that Ned had inherited from his father, and his grandfather before that, had ended many a man’s life—in execution, battle, even the odd duel between rivals—though it was thin and delicate-looking with its ivory handle. Cassel held it out, double-handed, and Ned took it, feeling the weight of it, in more than one sense.

“Has it been loaded?”

Cassel bowed his head. “It has, My King.”

The pirate boy clambered to his knees. “Please, My Lord, please. You can send me away. I promise, you’ll never see me again.”

Robb watched this, then Ned cocking the pistol. “Wait, you’re not going to…”

“He’s a pirate, Robb,” Catelyn said.

Robb’s eyes went wide. “But…just a little one.”

“He was with the raiders who attacked the port,” Ned explained. “If we let him go, he’ll raid again.”

“No, I won’t,” the boy pleaded. “I promise I won’t.”

“Can’t you just…lock him up?” Robb insisted.

“Oh, my boy,” Catelyn sighed. She gathered up her bustled skirts and hurried down the steps towards Robb. At nine years old, his mother had to stoop to put her hands on his shoulders, but she turned him away easily. “I know these things bother you,” she said, just soft enough that the guards would not hear her. “Don’t watch. Go to your room and wait. We’ll talk about all that’s happened …later.”

Normally Ned would have him watch an official execution. The boy would be holding plenty of his own when he became the ruler of Winterfell and its surrounding islands. It was necessary to help him understand that sentencing a man to death with your words was different than sentencing him to death with your hand. _The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword_ , as his own father had told him.

But what if it was no man on the chopping block, but a child? No, he didn’t object as Catelyn began to lead Robb away.

The pirate boy struggled to get to his feet, only to he wrestled back to the ground by the guards who’d escorted him in. He cried out as his arms were wrenched behind his back. Normally Ned would have at least allowed him the dignity of standing, choosing to turn or face the bullet straight on, but with the way the boy was trembling, he couldn’t afford it. If he missed and the boy lived and bled, it would spell disaster for everyone in the room. Still, the boy’s wailing was heartbreaking, and Ned resolved to have it done as quickly as possible.

He took the five paces from the dais to where the boy knelt.

“Please, My Lord!” the Greyjoy boy cried. “I-I can serve you. My Bloodline could be of use to you. I’ll be your servant. I-I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“You may want to close your eyes,” Ned advised as he placed the barrel of the pistol against the boy’s head. There would be no missing.

“Robb!”

All eyes turned to see Robb break from his mother’s grip and come running back. “Don’t do it!” Ned looked up, pistol raised just enough for Robb to throw himself between it and the boy, arms held out wide. “Please, Father. I’ll take him on as my servant. I’ll Bind him.”

Everyone was silent.

Catelyn spoke first. “No.”

Ned looked down at his son, and to his pride, Robb looked right back. No flinching. He lowered his weapon.

“Do you know what you’re asking?” Ned asked.

Robb’s eyes—blue, like his mother’s—were fierce. “Yes.”

“No,” Catelyn said again.

“This cannot be undone. He will be Bound to you until he dies. He will be your responsibility from this day on.”

“I know.”

“I forbid it!” Catelyn made to grab Robb, pull him back, but Ned pinned her with his gaze.

“It’s not for you to forbid,” he said.

She froze, met him with her own fierce gaze. Then stood down, chin tilted towards the floor. She was Queen of Winterfell, but also a Tully by birth. This was not Winterfell business, but Stark business. And Bloodlines always won out.

Ned handed the pistol off to Cassel, who took it without comment—though a curious look did cross the man’s face. Ned knelt down to be at the pirate boy’s level. “My son wants to spare your life,” he said, slowly. The boy stared up at him, raptly nodding his head to every word. “He has offered to Bind you to him. Do you know what that means, son?”

The boy’s mouth fell open. “I…I think so?” He didn’t sound too sure. And he needed to know, needed to know what he was accepting in exchange for his life.

“I’m sure the Greyjoys know about the Stark Bloodline. What have you heard?”

“I heard you…you can control people and…animals…by taking their blood.”

Ned frowned. “In a sense, yes. Any creature that mingles its blood with a Stark’s is bound to that man’s will. It cannot disobey its master’s command, whatever it may be.”

The boy’s eyes went wide.

“You understand, then? You will become my son’s thrall. You will serve and protect him for the rest of your days. Should you fail, should the one who Bound you die…you will die as well. Once done, it cannot be undone. It is not something to accept lightly.”

The boy swallowed. “Accept…?”

“We do not force a Bond on any human,” Ned said. “Your blood is not something to give lightly, but it must be given freely. Such are our laws.” He softened his voice.  “And in your case, the alternative is a bullet on the back of your head.” He allowed his face to become sympathetic. “Perhaps not much of a choice, but a choice nonetheless. So, what do you say, Greyjoy? Will you give your life to my son?”


	2. Heart of Hearts

ROBB

 

“Theon, you’re back!”

Robb flung himself at Theon, but Theon was quicker. In a flash, he had Robb up against the wall, pinned, and attacked his neck. He laved kisses onto the soft skin above Robb’s high-collared shirt while Robb laughed and ran his fingers through Theon’s hair.

“You’re back early.”

Theon pulled away. “Had to get back in time for your birthday.” He captured Robb’s lips. “I got you something.”

“Yeah?”

“Something I know you’ll like.”

Robb smirked. He _thought_ he knew. And, yes, there was _that_ , but Theon considered himself a gentleman. A good, hard fucking wasn’t a gentleman’s birthday present; it was just par. And, honestly, the way Theon’s hands slid down to his hips had Robb seriously doubting he would even make it to his birthday.

“My room,” Robb muttered. “Now.”

They shouldn’t be doing this in the hallway in any case. Lady Stark would throw a fit. And his life was as much in her hands as it was in Robb’s.

Robb grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him along. They fairly ran to his room and locked the door behind them.

Once they were safe, however, he allowed Theon to take the lead. Push him back against the bed until his knees hit the mattress and he collapsed backwards. Theon shrugged off his signature gold-trimmed long coat and loosened his cravat. Standing in just his fancy waistcoat, shirt opened to his collarbone, a hungry look in his eyes, he was the picture of a gentleman assassin. Dark and dangerous, a wandering rogue just pulled in to port.

Robb couldn’t vocalize how much he needed this, after a month apart. He knew Theon had to feel it more acutely, just from the way the Bond worked. Theon had once told him that he felt like a human compass, and Robb was true north. “I’ll always point to you,” he’d whispered in Robb’s ear, then jabbed him in the thigh with his erection until Robb broke down laughing.

Now Robb bit his lip, because Theon was hovering over him but taking his sweet time working his pants down, and he didn’t want to snap out an order in impatience. Because Theon would comply, whether he wanted to or not. It was a delicate line he walked, in more ways than one. This…thing he had with Theon—fumbling hands, wet mouths, exploring with curiosity if not necessarily purpose—it was dangerous. Robb knew it well enough. Not just because if anyone ever found out…his mother…Gods forbid… But not just that. Because at any moment, Robb could say the wrong thing, make an _order_ of it, and their relationship would change. It wouldn’t be master and willing servant anymore, as equal as such a thing could possibly be. No, it would be master and slave, and Robb would rather throw himself into the Core than become that.

He remembered the first time his father had discussed it with him, stiff and uncomfortable. Because he could foist off explaining “the facts of life” onto Alchemist Luwin, but this was a discussion he’d needed to give himself. No one else on the island could.

He’d taken Robb down to the island’s heart, the first time Robb had seen it, at nine years old. Not long after he’d Bound Theon. There was a staircase leading from the palace down into what felt like the bowels of Isle Winterfell itself. Mostly he remembered the dankness of it, and the smell of mold and moss as he followed the light of his father’s lantern down, down. Through narrow tunnels. And out into a grand cavern, where he found himself gazing up into the largest alchemy orb he’d ever seen—or yet seen since—suspended overhead. It lit the room with an eerie red and pulsed so that his own heart had no choice but to beat in unison with it. The sensation left him gasping for breath.

Ned’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. “The Heart of Winterfell has pumped the Stark Bloodline through our veins for millennia. It is what gives you the power to Bind, what gives your brothers and sisters the power to Bind. If you had been born on Riverrun, your mother’s home island, the heart there would give you the Tully Bloodline, and you would heal, like your mother. But because you were born on Winterfell, the heart here claimed your blood at birth.”

Robb nodded in understanding.

“All Bloodlines are dangerous, Robb. Even your mother’s. The Bloodlines are a dark, dark magic, entrusted to the First King. Entrusted to him but not to his descendants.” His grip became tight. Not painfully so, but grounding, as Ned turned him around and knelt down to look into his eyes. “This magic was never entrusted to you or me, or your grandfather before, but we received it all the same. It is a heavy responsibility to place on one who did not ask for it.”

Again, Robb nodded. He wanted to seem like an adult.

“You’ve Bound that boy to you, son. I would not have chosen a human as your first Bond, but you asked to take this responsibility on.”

“I don’t regret it,” Robb said, holding his head high. How could he, when he saw the look of relief that crossed the boy’s face, even as Robb drew the blade across the palm of his hand to mingle their blood. “He would have died otherwise.”

“Aye.” Ned patted his shoulder. “He would have. But now his life is your responsibility.”

“I know.”

“No, you _don’t_.”

Then the grip did become painful. Robb winced.

“That boy is your servant now. He’ll do whatever you tell him to do. As long as the blood you drew from him pumps through your veins, he has no choice. He is compelled to obey any order you put to him. If you tell him to jump, he’ll do it. If you tell him to fetch you something from the farthest corner of the earth, he’ll do it. If you, in anger, tell him to bite his tongue, he’ll do that too.”

Robb drew in a breath as his father’s words took meaning.

The Heart of Winterfell groaned, like rusted cogs trying to work, and for a moment, the light from the great alchemist orb dimmed. Ned’s tiny lantern sputtered as well, and both Robb and Ned had been plunged back into darkness.

But only for a brief moment.

When the light came back—both the heart and the lantern, together—Ned had a worried look on his face.

“What…what was that?” Robb’s voice was small and nearly drowned out by the returned rhythmic hum of the heart.

Ned blinked. “Nothing.” He shook his head, and the hand drew away from his shoulder. “Nothing to worry about.” He stood to his full height. “You’ve grown pale.”

_You have too_ , Robb thought.

“I hope you’re beginning to understand what the Bond means, how you hold this boy’s life in your hands.”

“I…I do, Father.”

His father’s words had terrified him that day, more so than the odd glitch—hearts skipped beats sometimes, after all. But the words of warning lingered. Which was why even though Theon’s lips ghosting hotly over his clothed erection was maddening, he restrained himself from yelling, “Get on with it already!” He had to be in control around Theon. Always.

Theon looked up at him, gaze traveling the length of Robb’s body spread out on the bed. “Do you want your birthday present now?”

Robb nodded, and Theon sat back on his heels. Robb wanted to scream.

Clothes rustled, and Robb’s hopes soared until he realized Theon was simply fetching something from his waistcoat pocket. The mattress dipped as he came to join Robb there, a trinket held out in his right hand. “Picked this up on Isle Braavos. Thought of you, right away.”

Robb took the trinket, a tiny, emerald alchemist orb with an elaborate spindle on top. “What is it?”

“It’s a specialty truth orb. It glows green around anyone who’s friendly.” He tapped the side of it. “See? It would be glowing red if I meant you harm.”

“You thought of me?”

Theon shrugged. “You’re not the best judge of character.”

“I am too.” Robb struggled into a sitting position. “I’m the future King of Isle Winterfell. I have to be.”

Theon joined him sitting up. “And now you can be sure.” He nodded to the orb. “Alright, perhaps it’s a bit of a backhanded gift, but it would make me happy if you kept it with you.”

Robb sighed. “Of course. You’re just looking out for me.”

“Always.” He took the gift from Robb and set it on the bedside table. “Now, do you want the other part of your gift?”

_Gods, yes_.

Theon pressed his lips against Robb’s, claiming him as they fell back onto the bed together. His mouth was so warm and wet, and tasted slightly of copper and the exotic spices he’d been eating at meals for the path month.

Abruptly, Robb put a hand to Theon’s chest. The other boy stopped and drew back. “Everything alright?”

“I’m sorry I have to ask.” Robb gnawed the inside of his lip. “But before we go farther, did you…?”

“Did I…?”

“While you were away?”

Theon’s eyes widened in understanding. “Two,” he said, without hesitation and without apology. “A girl on Isle Braavos and a boy on Isle Sunspear. They were both clean, I’m fairly certain, and in any case, the ship alchemist cleared me.”

Robb nodded. “I…just wanted to check.” He was going to be eighteen in twenty-four hours, and he needed to handle this like an adult. No more petty jealousy. Of course Theon slept with others while he was out; he had needs.

Theon’s mouth was on his again, hungry with need that Robb knew in his deepest heart could only be sated when they were together. He allowed the other boy’s lips to muffle any order he might be thinking, especially, “Only ever sleep with me. Only ever look at me. Only ever be with me.”


	3. Bad Blood

CATELYN

 

Catelyn watched the ship come in; she had a fairly decent view of the port, even through the thick mists of Isle Winterfell, from the room she shared with her husband in the palace’s high tower. The body of the zeppelin was a dark shadow in the fog, illuminated from underneath softly by the light of the Core. So, the crew was back from their bounty hunting trip. Another successful mission, she surmised.

She hated to admit it, even if it was only to herself, that a part of her always hoped that this would be the time Theon Greyjoy wouldn’t return. She’d tried to tamp down these sinful thoughts, this wishing death on a boy whose greatest crime in life so far was being an insufferable twat. It was the “so far” part that bothered her the most. Knowing what his Bloodline was capable of, seeing it in action as a little girl.

A conversation she’d had with Robb, not too long after he’d Bound the boy. She remembered it clearly, her and Robb and Sansa sitting in the courtyard, a rare sunny day. Arya, a toddler at the time, down for a nap, affording them all a respite from her constant wailing. Sansa’s hair had flashed in the sunlight as Catelyn ran a brush through it, humming softly.

It was Robb who looked up from his reading. “Mother, why do you hate Theon?”

The brush stilled in Catelyn’s hands. “I don’t hate Theon,” she replied. Lied, perhaps.

Robb made a small _hmm_ ’ing noise, and Catelyn knew her answer was insufficient.

She set the brush down and allowed Sansa’s hair to run through her fingers as she released it. Then, considering how to best word her thoughts, she turned to Robb. “You know how your father and I raised you—the both of you—to be honest and just and kind in all that you do? How we have taught you to use your Bloodline for good, to never abuse it?”

“Yes,” Robb agreed. “I want to be a good a ruler as you are when I’m grown up.”

Catelyn smiled at that. But then frowned.

“Theon’s family…taught him the opposite. To be cruel. To lie and cheat and steal. To take what he wants by any means necessary, even using his Bloodline.”

Robb’s face became stricken. “But…Theon’s not like that!” he protested.

“But his family _is_. You remember what I told you about your grandfather, about how he died?”

Images came unbidden to her. Her father, his life’s blood, meant for healing, now spreading across the floorboards, seeping under the bed where she remained hidden. Biting on her lip to keep from crying as it soaked her hands, her knees, her dress. Later she would think how evil it was, that her father had bled to death while the Greyjoy pirate could simply reabsorb the blood he’d shed.

“Mother?”

She blinked back to herself, realizing she’d drifted off and that Sansa was trying to tell her something.

“Is he really that dangerous?” Sansa said, with a frustrated tone that said she’d asked this question at least once before. “Theon. He doesn’t seem…” She trailed off.

Catelyn picked up the brush once more. “Let me put it this way.” She drew Sansa’s hair back. “He is capable of being dangerous.”

“Father says anyone with a Bloodline is capable of being dangerous,” Robb said.

Catelyn hummed in reply.

“Besides, Theon would never hurt me. He can’t.” Robb grinned, pleased with himself in only the way nine-year-olds can be. “He’s not scary at all. In fact, he’s really nice. I bet if you got to know him, you’d like him a lot.”

But the thing was, Catelyn mused as she slipped out of her reverie, she _had_ gotten to know him over the years. Had watched him grow from a shy, timid child to a brash, callous, arrogant youth. Saw the faintest hint of cruelty in the disregard he showed for the palace staff—for anyone he deemed beneath him, really. Heard his bragging—of his latest bounty hunting success, of his sexual exploits—usually crass and directed at Robb, trying to impress him. Because, despite all that, she also saw his genuine affection for her son, a devotion that went beyond the Bond.

She hated to admit it, but Theon cared for Robb. Truly cared for him. And she hated it because it meant he would not be easily rid of.

She sighed, looking at the ship that had just come into port. Jory would give her a report, unadulterated by Theon’s accounting. She didn’t want the boy to die, not really. But she did send the occasional prayer to the Gods that he would simply…go away.

There was a knock at the door, and Catelyn turned from the window.

“Are you in h—ah, there you are,” Ned said, pushing the door in. “I hope you’re not intending to leave all the party planning to me. The servants want to know how they should arrange the guests’ seating, and you know I’m no good at that sort of thing.” He paused abruptly at the doorway. “Is something the matter?”

She blinked, remembering what had brought her to the tower in the first place. She was still hunched over the alchemy orb. The crystal blue messenger orb had been a wedding gift from her mother, a matching one made for Edmure and Lysa so that they could still reach each other across the vast chasm separating their islands. She seldom heard from her brother and sister, and now, within the span of a few days, she’d received messages from both of them.

“Edmure says the glitches on Isle Riverrun are becoming more frequent,” she said, standing up and turning off the alchemy orb; its blue faded to an empty black. “There have been five this week already, never for longer than a few seconds, but he’s still concerned. Lysa reports a similar situation on Isle Vale.”

Ned said nothing.

“It’s getting worse, Ned,” she said. “We _can’t_ keep ignoring it.”

“If it were any cause for concern,” Ned finally said, “we would have heard from the Citadel by now.”

“I don’t like this. On Wintefell alone we’ve had sev—”

“Shh.” Ned hurried over and silenced her with a gentle embrace. “It’s all part of the hearts’ natural cycle, my love. There’s nothing to be concerned about.” He kissed the top of her head, much the way she used to do with Sansa when she’d woken from a bad dream as a small girl. “Our son is about to come of age. His birthday needs planning, and you’re up here fretting about things you can’t control?”

“I don’t like it,” she repeated, so quietly that it might have gotten lost in the expanse of his broad chest. And he must not have heard it, because he didn’t react.

“Come.” He released her and took her hand. “Let’s go see the seating arrangements.” He led her, gently but firmly, from the room.

She went after with no protest, just the lingering feeling of helplessness that had been her companion since girlhood.


	4. Blood Moon

THEON

 

Robb had the seat of honor next to his mother and father. The feast was in his honor, after all. In the minds of the islanders, he was a man today. He just _looked_ like a boy, uncomfortable at sitting with the grownups, squirming in his chair, shooting hopeful looks at Theon from across the room. Gods, he looked like he was at a funeral reception, not his own birthday party.

It was too bad the two of them couldn’t be seen fraternizing, but also, perhaps, for the best. Otherwise Robb might retreat with him to some far corner and neglect his guests. Theon had also caught Catelyn giving him the odd glance, as if she expected him to cause some trouble.

She’d never liked him. Sometimes he liked to imagine the look on her face if he told her all the filthy things he’d done to and with her darling eldest son.

“Theon!”

A whispered hiss brought his attention back to the present. He looked up from the bloody mess on his plate to find his table mates staring at him—the other Stark children, also relegated to the out-of-the-way table. Rickon’s eyes were the size of saucers; Sansa looked aghast. Theon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered a lopsided smile. “Guess I should slow down a bit.”

“A bit?” Sansa said. “You look like you’re—” She paused abruptly, looked around, and lowered her voice. “You look like you’ve just butchered the poor thing and dropped it on your plate.”

“Bloody hell,” Arya agreed, with more than a hint of admiration in her voice. 

Rickon puffed his face up in indignation. “How come you yell at me when I eat all messy but not Theon?”

“Because Theon needs to eat a lot of meat for his Bloodline,” Bran explained.

“He doesn’t need to eat it like a savage, though,” Sansa added.

Theon laughed, and she turned bright red in the cheeks. He’d always suspected she had something of a crush on him, due in no small part to his “savage” nature. Perhaps she shared her mother’s dream of finding an upstanding young man from a reputable island and an “honorable” Bloodline, but that didn’t stop her imaging what it would be like to be with someone dangerous, someone her mother did not approve of. It was what had originally drawn Robb in, after all.

He set his steak knife down and reached for a napkin. “Not much fresh meat available on the airships,” he explained, wiping the rest of the blood from his face and surreptitiously checking his fine clothing for stains. “Just dried and salted. Not good for replenishing blood stores.”

“Did you lose a lot of blood?” Arya asked eagerly.

“You lost blood?” Sansa asked in alarm, her disgust turned to genuine concern. “Did you run into trouble while you were gone?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Theon waved her off. “Just an altercation on Lannisport Island.”

Arya’s eyes lit up, either from the prospect of a blood or adventures in far-off lands. Or perhaps both.

Theon waved his hand dismissively. “One of those Lannister bastards was insulting the Greyjoys, and then the Starks, so of course I had to step in.” No need to add that he’d been especially drunk at the time, showing off his Bloodline for a pub full of people with an eye on impressing the attractive serving girl, which is what had prompted the original insult from an equally inebriated man in Lannister uniform.

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Please tell me you did!” Arya said.

Theon smiled again and pushed back in his chair, the way he did at pubs when a good story needed telling. “Alright, so there’s this Lannister idiot going on about how Greyjoys are useless and Starks are cowards, and he’s so confident that he challenges me to a duel: his blade against mine.”

That part wasn’t exactly an exaggeration. At the soldier’s declaration that no weapon made of blood could stand against steel, he’d drawn his own knife accordingly. The bar patrons were curious and Theon wasn’t about to back down, so they cleared a circle in the middle of the pub for a knife fight.

“You won?” Rickon asked.

“Of course I won,” Theon said. The look on the drunken man’s face as his steel blade had clashed against Theon’s blood blade, not slicing through it like he’d expected, had been especially satisfying. Theon had no doubt he could defeat the man in fair combat, but that moment of surprise had given him the edge to knock the man on his ass and win the duel handily.

“He must have gotten a good cut in for you to lose so much blood,” Sansa said, not even bothering to disguise her interest, though she should have been properly scandalized by talk of bar fights.

“Eh…” Theon shrugged. “I’d had a few drinks. You bleed a lot more than normal.” Better to let them think he’d been cut by a skilled knife fighter than let them know that he’d been drunk enough to drop his blood blade after his swift victory. Once free from his hand, it had become a shapeless mass of blood that spattered all over the floor; he didn’t envy whoever’d had to clean that mess up, but probably Jory had slipped the tavern a few extra coins for the trouble they’d caused.

Theon had woken up back on the ship, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. Normally he’d retract any weapon he formed, absorbing the blood back into his body, but once it left contact with his skin, he lost the ability to control it. The same reason he couldn’t make arrows using his Bloodline, even though he was most skilled with a bow.

“You’re so reckless,” Sansa said. “No wonder Robb worries about you when you’re gone on your trips.”

Theon waved her off. “I know, I know. I’ll try to be more careful from now on.” He looked to Robb in time to see the other giving him yet another desperate look from across the room. “Don’t…don’t tell Robb, alright?” he said, still feeling a bit guilty about the look that had crossed the other boy’s face when he’d admitted to sleeping with other people. Not guilty enough to stop, of course, but guilty enough to want to make it up to him. “It’s his party. I don’t want him worrying about me.”

“Yeah, he looks like he’s having a _great_ time,” Arya said with a roll of her eyes.

Sansa elbowed her in the ribs, and while a small slap-fight broke out between the two sisters, Theon shot Robb a reassuring smile. He wished he could go over there and rescue him, but it wasn’t his _place_. You always had to be mindful of your _place_.

Perhaps the Gods were listening, because at that exact moment, every light in the great hall flickered out with the sound of a great, winding-down moan. All the air seemed to leave the room. For a brief moment, nobody reacted. Everyone just stood still, frozen mid-motion, waiting for the lights to come back on. Or not.

Then, the heavy wooden doors burst inwards. A gust of wind swept through the hall, rustling cloth, curtains, and drapes in its wake. Plates and silverware clattered. The lights turned on without warning, illuminating the stranger standing the doorway.

The man’s face was hooded, but his heavy gray cloak and chain gave him away as one of the alchemist scholars from the Citadel. He strode into the hall, wind ripping at his clothing. Theon couldn’t see his eyes, but his head roved from side to side, searching someone out. Finally, he landed at the head table, and for a split second, Theon thought he was looking at Robb.

But no, he hurried forward and bowed before Ned, somewhat awkwardly. As he bent forward, his hood fell away to reveal a round-faced man, a boy really, maybe around Theon or Robb’s age. He straightened up and coughed nervously into a closed fist before speaking. “F-forgive me for the interruption, Y-Your Grace, for the unannounced visit.” His voice was pitchy and nervous. “I’m a messenger from the Citadel and—”

“Can this not wait?” Ned stood, a look if displeasure on his face. Theon had had that expression leveled at him on more than one occasion. “It’s our son’s birthday.”

“I…uh, yes, I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace, but my orders were to find you right away, forthwith, and make certain, absolutely certain, that you heard my message with your own ears. It is…um, important.” The young man rocked back and forth on his feet before seeming to remember something else. “And urgent. Very urgent.”

Ned sighed. “Very well. You have everyone’s attention now. Let’s hear it.”

The young man stopped his rocking and looked around, as if noticing all the eyes on him for the first time.

“Your message, young man,” Catelyn prompted. “What is it?”

“Oh!” He snapped out of it. “Um…yes, you’ve been summoned to the Citadel, Lord Stark.”

“Why?” It was Catelyn’s turn to stand, hands braced on the table. “Why have you come all this way just to call my husband away?”

The scholar stared at with her round eyes for a moment. “Oh, well, you’ve all been summoned, Your Grace,” he answered. “All the Bloodlines have.”

Murmuring broke out among the guests, and Catelyn and Ned looked at each other. Something was going on, but judging by the look on Robb and the younger Starks’ faces, Theon wasn’t the only one who wasn’t entirely sure what.

“A meeting of the Bloodlines?” Catelyn spoke, her voice hushed. “You don’t suppose…?”

“It very well could be,” Ned said. “A Culling.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some quick concept art. From left to right: Theon, Robb, Cat, Ned, Sansa.
> 
> And, why yes, I did graduate from the Rob Leifeld School of Drawing Hands and Feet. Thank you for noticing.


	5. Blood in the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew you weren't going to get a fic from me without these guys showing up.

ROOSE

 

The lights along the corridor flickered, sputtered as if they were powered by flames instead of electricity. It was merely a second, but enough for Roose to pause, glance up. The Dreadfort’s lighting had always been a tricky thing, ever since he had been a young boy exploring the dank bowels of his family’s manor. This wasn’t a glitch, though. He could feel it in his veins, which, after all, did share some blood with the First King.

Diluted Bloodlines created unpredictable outcomes. The source of his current ire was proof of that.

But as for Roose himself…sometimes he got these feelings, deep in his bones. Something was off.

The lights came back on and he continued walking, even if the feeling lingered. Something may be brewing, but it was far away from him at the moment.

He found Ramsay in the courtyard, one hand holding a flaying knife, the other cut open at the palm, a deep gash that painted his wrist and forearm in red. He didn’t seem to notice his father’s arrival, back turned, as he held the cut hand out and dribbled a bit of blood onto the wilted grass. A single flower pushed its way up through the cracked earth. A pathetic thing, stunted and withered, but more flowers than Roose had ever seen growing in this courtyard.

“That is not the proper use of a flaying knife,” Roose said.

Ramsay started and whirled around. The self-pleased grin on his face turned quickly to a scowl.

Roose strode forward, out of the shadow of the archway, to pluck the knife from Ramsay’s hand. “Or do I need to teach you this lesson again?”

His wayward bastard had the nerve to bare his teeth. Those oddly pointed canine teeth on display. Diluted Bloodlines. Unpredictable outcomes.

“I was practicing my newfound ability,” Ramsay declared, gesturing towards the flower. “Courtesy of my dear wife.” He snickered. “Dearly departed wife.”

Roose twirled the sharp little blade in his fingers. “You are awfully proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Ramsay seemed to contemplate that for a moment. He stared down at the flower. “Not really worth it, I guess. Growing things? I’d have to use a lot of blood for that to be useful at all.” He grimaced in disgust and used his sleeve to start wiping away the mess on his arm. “She was fun for a bit, though. The way she screamed…sounded like a strangled crow.”

He threw his head back and laughed.

Roose jammed the knife into his shoulder.

It was not the proper use of a flaying knife, and he had probably damaged the blade, but it was worth it to see the look of shock on the bastard’s face, followed a half-second later by a steady stream of curses.

“What the fuck! You stabbed me?”

“Perhaps if I teach you with some pain, my lessons will sink in better.”

“Lessons? What le—?”

“The Hornwoods want to know why Donella was found in her room in such an emaciated state. They would have asked about her fingers if I hadn’t had the forethought to put gloves on her hands prior to the ceremony.” Roose paused to slick back an out-of-place strand of hair. “The ceremony you neglected to attend. I can assure you, your absence did not go unnoticed. I told them you were too overcome with grief to attend.”

By then, Ramsay had rolled up his sleeve to assess the damage to his shoulder. The stab wound was deep, but small, blood trickling downwards to meet with the rivulets on his arm and wrist.

“You’ll survive,” Roose stated, tucking the blade into his sleeve. “Or shall I fetch an alchemist for you?”

Ramsay glowered at him. “Why are you such a cunt?”

“Because you are an idiot,” Roose answered honestly. “You lack any form of self-restraint, and you’ve shown absolutely no care for the position I’m in.”

“ _The position you’re in_?” Ramsay spat back.

“Unlike you, I have aspirations. I orchestrated your marriage to Donella Hornwood because I was under the misguided belief that you also had aspirations. I was a fool, of course, to trust you with anything so complicated as playing politics.” He sighed. “Domeric had aspirations.”

Ramsay’s face turned ugly.

“You draw _unwanted_ attention to our House,” Roose went on, ignoring that look. “I find you distasteful, but since Domeric left us, you’ve become indispensible. Funny, that.”

Ramsay wouldn’t even meet his eyes at that.

“I don’t trust you. I wish you weren’t mine.” _And that you didn’t remind me so much of myself…or what I may have been_. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret raping your mother.”

Ramsay’s hands tightened into fists.

“And yet…” Roose kept his face neutral. “I did. You are. And I must. Trust you, that is.”

Ramsay, always a slave to his moods, stood up straight and cocked his head in curiosity, all simmering anger forgotten. For the moment. “Trust me?”

“You and I are all that are left of our House. I have no intentions of letting it die out, a forgotten lesser family, another victim of a weakened bloodline.” He nearly choked on the disgust that rose up in his throat. “No. We have the blood of the First King in our veins, and with your particular talent, we could reclaim the Bloodline of our ancestors.”

He paused to muse. Perhaps there was a reason fate had seen fit to deliver Ramsay with one hand and take away Domeric with the other.

When he had received news of Donella Hornwood’s…unfortunate passing, his first instinct had been to have Ramsay flogged and left in the dungeons for a week. Such disregard for his planning and hard work, not to mention conduct unbefitting of a member of House Bolton. Where just anyone could see it, that was. Questions would be asked, fingers would be pointed, and Roose knew he had not even begun to smooth over the issue with Lady Hornwood’s kin.

A flogging would have been too kind for Ramsay, but that wasn’t why Roose was here. He needed the bastard cooperative, receptive, because his new plan required Ramsay’s abilities. The unpredictable outcome of a diluted Bloodline.

“I would see us on the throne of Isle Winterfell,” Roose said, “but I need to trust you in order to make this vision into reality.”

Ramsay was still curious, but skeptical now. If he thought Roose couldn’t read every tic of his face, he truly was a stupid boy.

“What do you need me to do?”

Roose eyed him up and down. His bastard, uncomely peasant’s face, brutish build. His jacket unbuttoned, his dress shirt torn and stained with blood and dirt—and perhaps more. “First,” he began slowly, “I need you to get yourself cleaned up. You’re taking a trip into the city.”


	6. Change of Heart

THEON

 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Robb said for what had to be at least the fifth time.

And Theon ignored him for the fifth time, bouncing up and down on the bed, testing the springs. Nominally to see how much it could take, but really just to see what color Robb’s face would turn in embarrassment. “Sturdy. Think the crewmen will be able to hear us? Why don’t you go out in the hall and I’ll start making noises, then tell me if you if you can hear me or not.”

“ _Theon_ ,” Robb hissed.

“Fine, fine,” Theon said with mock petulance. “ _You’re_ more of the screamer anyway.” He lay back on the one-person bed, arms behind his head, legs crossed and dirty boots on the top covers. It would have driven Catelyn mad, were she here. “Aren’t you going to tell me what you and your parents talked about last night?” he finally asked, staring up at the ceiling. “What’s a Culling?”

Not turning his head, he glanced over at Robb, who was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“I’m…not entirely sure,” Robb admitted. “I guess it’s a sort of gathering of the eight Houses. At least one member of each Bloodline is supposed to be there. Father said the last one was over three hundred years ago.”

“Hmm,” Theon snorted disinterestedly. He could have figured that out on his own. “Is that why I’m along, then?”

“The Citadel isn’t sure they’ll be able to summon any other Greyjoys.”

“Then I’ll do my best to represent my Bloodline.” Theon flashed his cockiest smile. The Starks, and Catelyn in particular, were also quick to remind him that Greyjoys were not to be trusted. “And why are you coming, hmm? One Stark from Isle Winterfell not enough?”

Robb looked at the floor, at his boots. “Well…I am a man grown now…”

“You’ve been a man for a while,” Theon said. “I saw to that, didn’t I?”

Robb ignored that. Not even a cute little whine of indignation. Instead, he continued to stare at his boots for a moment, then snapped his head up and blurted out, “Father wants to present me to the other families to negotiate a marriage contract!”

It hung in the air for a moment.

Two.

Theon sat up on the bed. “What do you need to get married for?” he demanded.

“Father thinks it’s time I start thinking about taking a wife, starting a family, furthering the Bloodline and all that,” Robb answered, rubbing at the back of his head. “He says the last time a Culling was called, it was because the Bloodlines were running too thin, diluted from marrying non-Bloodline families.”

“Bloody Vassals,” Theon scoffed.

On Isle Pyke, Vassals were seen as the bastards and commoners they were. Their blood magic was less powerful, so esoteric as to be completely useless in most cases. But the Vassals of Isle Winterfell were afforded honor as members of the Lesser Houses, governors and landowners and the like. “They are still worthy of respect as Descendants of the First King,” Robb had reprimanded him after an off-hand comment about Lady Mormont.

“Father wants me to marry a girl from one of the Bloodline families,” Robb continued, “in case we need to strengthen our lines again. Plus…” He shrugged. “It makes political sense.”

“Political sense,” Theon sneered. “Maybe that’s why the Bloodlines are so weak. Because _you’re_ all sitting around playing politics instead of using the gift the First King gave us.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Muscles get weak when you don’t use them.”

“I don’t even know what you’re suggesting,” Robb said. “The Stark Bloodline is dangerous. We can’t just use it whenever we want.”

“Your ancestors did. That’s how they ruled over Winterfell and its islands for centuries, just like mine did on Pyke.”

Robb pulled himself up ramrod straight, a hint of genuine anger on his face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a warning tone.

Theon didn’t care for that tone. At all.

“I mean,” he shot back, “if you’re happy enough marrying some highborn whore, then by all means, go ahead. Do whatever daddy orders you to do. You’re practically his Bond slave anyway.”

“Shut up!” Robb yelled.

As soon as those words left his lips, Theon felt a pull on his body. It was immediate, and so powerful he had no hope to fight against it. _Shut up_. His mouth clamped close.

Robb realized his mistake a moment too late.

“You can talk,” he amended quickly, putting his hands out as if to dispel the thoughtless order he’d just given.

Theon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He worked his jaw, then stood, the bed creaking under him as he got to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Robb said, following behind him to the door but not reaching out to touch him. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Theon snapped. “I hope your daddy finds you a pretty wife. Maybe she’ll even be a Greyjoy. Just so long as it’s not me, right?”

He slammed it behind him.

Robb didn’t follow.

Once out in the narrow hallway, he clenched his hands, the lingering helplessness he’d felt under Robb’s power causing his limbs to tremble. From somewhere on the upper decks, a whistle blew. Shit, they hadn’t even left port yet. What a wonderful way to begin a voyage.

He needed someone to fuck. He’d been in the mood for a man—actually, he’d been the mood for _Robb_ —but at this point, anyone would do. He needed to get some of this frustration out.

The most frustrating thing was that he couldn’t even tell _where_ his frustration was coming from.

So Robb wanted to marry some bint he’d never met before. What of it? So he’d given an order. Theon wasn’t so weak he’d let two words make him cower like a little girl.

The entire hull rocked as the airship left the dock, its wings sputtering to catch the jet stream that would carry them to the Citadel. The motion of the floorboards under his feet was soothing and bled off a little of his anger. He hated being landlocked, loved being airborne. The wind and sky ran in his veins as much as his Bloodline did.

For the first year he’d been in Robb’s service, he’d been in a deep depression with only solid ground beneath his feet. It had been Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s sheriff and chief arbiter of law and order, who’d suggested that maybe the “lad” would feel more as home on an airship. And since Robb’s Bond would follow him wherever he went, he’d been allowed on a brief trip to Lannisport, captained by the sheriff’s son…just in case. From that day, it had been floated that Theon could be Robb’s…emissary of sorts. A purveyor of justice where the young Lord of Winterfell couldn’t go.

Theon made his way down the narrow hallway. Airships were not for everyone. The closed-in spaces below deck were not for those who suffered from claustrophobia; the open deck above and the endless expanse of sky were not for those who suffered from acrophobia. And the constant moving as the ship was buffeted by winds was not for those who needed solidity underfoot. There was nowhere else that Theon felt more at home.

He was headed for the galley, as there was always a kitchen worker who was willing for a quick fuck in one of the back rooms, but one of the cabin doors opened and a young man emerged, blocking his way. It was the alchemist scholar from last night.

He was round, pudgy, and with an exceptionally unremarkable face, but Theon supposed there might be a certain charm in seducing him. He moved in.

“Citadel couldn’t be bothered to give you a ride back?” he asked.

The young man looked up from locking his door, startled. He obviously hadn’t seen Theon there. It took him a moment to understand the question. “Ah…no. I’m supposed to escort Lord Stark back to the Citadel.” He smiled uncertainly. “And you are a Greyjoy. That’s two Bloodlines accounted for. A shame Lady Stark decided to remain behind. That would have been three. But I’ve been told that Lord Tully and Lady Arryn have also been informed of the Culling, so I suppose the Tully Bloodline will be accounted for.”

“Hmm, yes,” Theon said with mock interest. “You must be a very important alchemist to be entrusted with such an important mission.”

He turned bright pink. “Me? Oh, I’m still an apprentice. Just a messenger really.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself so short.” Theon used his fingertips to caress the young man’s arm. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“H-handsome?” The young man swallowed thickly.

“I just love a man in uniform,” Theon said, tugging lightly on the man’s gray robe. “Unless they don’t allow that sort of thing at the Citadel.”

“They do—I mean, they don’t mind—but I’m—I’m not—I’m sorry, but—”

“You can pretend I’m a woman.” Theon leaned in just a little closer and was pleased to note that the scholar didn’t lean away. “When I’m down on my knees, you won’t even be able to tell the difference.”

“Ah—ah—uh—n-no.” The scholar was bright red, and Theon could practically feel the heat radiating off of him as he finally did step back. “I—I—that’s very kind of you, but I’m not—I don’t—” He broke abruptly to take in a deep breath of air. “I’m very flattered, but I don’t do that. With random strangers, I mean. Not that you’re a random stranger, but…it just wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Theon forced a smile, lips pressed tightly together to keep from blurting out, “Your loss, tubby.” It wouldn’t do to piss off an alchemist on official business from the Citadel, even if he was just an apprentice.

Instead, Theon stepped back with a courteous nod. “You like to focus on your work. I can appreciate that.” Maybe the guy wasn’t interested in fucking, but he might be able to answer a few questions Robb hadn’t seen fit to answer. “So, you must know what all this Culling business is about, being an alchemist and all.”

“App—”

“Apprentice alchemist, yes,” Theon interrupted. “But why are we all being summoned to the Citadel?”

“Ah, well…I’m not entirely sure. I wasn’t privy to that information.”

Theon sighed in frustration. This guy was turning out to be rather dull indeed.

“I do know that it has to do with the islands’ hearts.”

“What about them?”

“They’ve been malfunctioning. Surely you’ve noticed on Isle Winterfell?”

“Sure, but they never go out for more than a few seconds. And it’s not like we’ve all plunged into the core.”

“It’s not normal behavior, and it has my masters concerned,” the young man continued, wringing his hands together. “They fear that the energy might be going out of them. That they might need…replenishing.”

The way he said that last word piqued Theon’s curiosity. “What sort of replenishing?”

“Well, I think, maybe, that’s what the Culling is for?” He didn’t sound too certain and shrugged to prove it. “I don’t know. I’ve only heard bits of conversation between the higher ups. Like I said, it’s not information I’ve been entrusted with.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m just the messenger, after all.”

“Right.” Theon nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was something to sate his curiosity. In the meantime, he really needed to find something to fuck and this guy was standing in his way. He gingerly walked around his bulk, disguising it by slapping a hand on his shoulder, as if congratulating him. “Well, it was nice speaking with you.”

“Sam.”

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Sam.”

“Oh.” Theon didn’t remember asking. “Theon.”

“Theon Greyjoy,” Sam said with a nod. “Yes, I know.”

Theon blinked in surprise.

“I know all the Bloodline lineages,” Sam explained. “But also…”

“Also…?”

“Um…you have a reputation, you know.”

Theon cocked his head. “I do?” He smirked. “What sort?”

“Well…” Sam hesitated. “I knew it had to be you right away.” He gave another small shrug. “You were very forthright in your advances, after all.”

 

***

 

Robb found him later that night. Slipped into his cabin and closed the door behind him. Probably thought he was being really stealthy.

Theon had his back turned and ignored the approaching sound of bare feet against the floorboards. He was forced to roll over when Robb hopped up to join him in the hammock. They curled together, face to face.

“I’m sorry,” Robb whispered. His face was illuminated by the green glow of the alchemy orb around his neck, the one Theon had given him for his birthday. “I don’t really want to get married. I told Father so, but he was adamant. I thought about telling him about us…”

“Are you an idiot?” Theon hissed.

“I’m an idiot when I’m around you. Anyway, I’m sorry I yelled at you. And I’m sorry I ordered you around.”

Theon wanted to cling to his bitterness, but he somehow couldn’t manage to muster his earlier indignation. “I forgive you,” he sighed. “I guess I was a little out of line too.”

Robb nestled in closer, burying his face in Theon’s chest. The fabric of the hammock folded around them, creating a pocket of space where just the two of them existed. “I knew you would forgive me. My necklace is still green around you. That means you’re still my friend, right?”

Theon smiled in spite of himself. “Of course. I’m not going to hate you because you were an idiot. Like you said, you’re always an idiot.”

“Always an idiot around _you_ ,” Robb corrected.

_And I’m an idiot for you_ , Theon thought but didn’t say. He was already laying it on a little thick.

They curled together, the hammock rocking gently with the swaying of the ship. Theon breathed in the scent of Robb deeply and tried not to think about the galley wench he’d fucked in the kitchen earlier.


	7. Blood Pressure

SAM

 

****

Sam was pretty pleased with himself, all things considered. He had carried out his duties, delivered his message, and successfully ferried his charges to the Citadel. Master Alchemist Aemon would be pleased that his student had overcome the naysayers with efficiency and competence, and even Brother Alliser wouldn’t be able to find anything to dress him down over, Sam mused as he led the Starks up the winding staircase to Tower Black.

He’d never been to the top of the Citadel’s tallest spire, where the Grand Master Alchemists held conference. He’d be a liar, and a poor one, to say he wasn’t nervous. His feet tripped on the stairs; made of glass-like ebony to begin with, they were also worn smooth by centuries—nay, millennia—of boots treading up and down this very stairwell.

Behind him, his charges marched carefully. The guard, a Jory Cassel, led the way, despite Sam’s insistence that only those will a Bloodline were allowed. Ned Stark had insisted, however, as well as Cassel himself with a well-placed hand on the pistol at his side. Sam had received no order that the guests were to be disarmed—how did you disarm someone with magic in their very blood?—and so he allowed it. Besides, a Master Alchemist could easily turn the bullets into smoke or some such.

Ned Stark followed next, his cape whispering against the stairs with every step. He, all of them really, were dressed far too warmly for the climate. Sam had tried to warn them that the Reach was a more temperate clime, but he hadn’t been listened to. He was seldom listened to. Robb Stark, in particular, was suffering, his brow beaded with sweat, his breath coming out more ragged the higher they climbed. The poor boy was dressed in layers upon layers of finery—a dress shirt, a vest, a waistcoat, a jacket, a fur-lined cloak—all of it heavy material, to say nothing of the undershirt he doubtless wore underneath.

Theon Greyjoy was more appropriately dressed in lightweight material, his shirt, cravat-less, opened to his clavicle. He’d been dressed much the same their entire journey here, though, so Sam gathered this wasn’t unusual attire for him. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the young man, especially after their…encounter aboard the airship. Except, perhaps, that his standards for the partners he pursued had been greatly exaggerated.

Sam wouldn’t lie to himself. He knew he was no catch.

No one had ever flirted with him before—no one who wasn’t trying to get money, at least—and even though he might have preferred a woman’s attentions, he had to admit that it was…nice…to be noticed.

He nearly tripped again as he set his foot down, only to find he’d reached the top of the staircase and there was no step to catch him. He staggered awkwardly into the spire’s antechamber, where he had been directed to bring his charges just as soon as they had settled into their quarters.

They weren’t the first party to arrive.

That, of course, would be the Tyrells, whom Sam’s family has served for generations. They were the rulers of the Reach, even if they technically had no sway over the Citadel itself. They ruled from Isle High Garden, where the heart bestowed their Bloodline with the power of precognition. Sam wasn’t sure how, exactly, it worked, since the Tyrell matriarch, Olenna, kept a tight lid on the mechanics of their blood magic. Rumor had it the suspicious old crone was so powerful that she could judge someone’s intent just by feeling their pulse.

She was here, representing her family’s interest, along with her granddaughter, Margaery Tyrell, who was rumored to be her protégé and heir. The granddaughter was quite the lovely young woman, and Sam found himself looking away as her eyes grazed him and the newcomers. Not fast enough that he didn’t notice the plunging neckline of her dress, a bit inappropriate even for the Reach’s weather.

Sam kept his eyes rooted firmly on the ground as he led the Starks into the antechamber. “Grand Master Alchemist Baelish will be with you shortly,” he explained, placing the overdressed lot by the window, where they might at least benefit from the spire’s breeze. “It appears we have a few guests left to arrive…”

He made a mental note of those present: the Lannisters of Casterly Island, led by patriarch Tywin Lannister; the Tullys, represented by Edmure Tully and Lysa Tully-Arryn, who also doubled as a representative of the Arryn Bloodline, as her son was well-known to be too sickly to travel; the Baratheons of Storm Island, represented solely by Stannis Baratheon. That meant the only two parties left missing were…

Before Sam could even finish the thought, the doors to the antechamber flew open with a crash and in strode a trio of what could only be described as ruffians, two men and a woman. A grim-faced, gray-haired man led, flanked by a dark-haired man with an eye patch and a younger woman with a hawkish nose. They walked with purpose, acknowledging the stares only with a sideways flick of their eyes. They were, all three of them, dressed in rough traveling wear, as if they had not bothered to change before presenting themselves.

The Greyjoys of the Iron Islands. The lead man would be the patriarch, Balon Greyjoy, which meant the young woman must be his daughter and heir, Asha Greyjoy. Which meant the other man must be one of Balon’s brothers, and with the eye patch, it could only be Euron Greyjoy.

Sam had not expected them to show. The apprentice tasked with delivering the message to them must have convinced them there was an armistice in place. Several people, most notable Edmure Tully and Lysa Arryn, gave them scathing looks.

Sam made note of the exit. He had no desire to be caught in the crossfire of blood magic should a fight break out.

They Greyjoys ignored the looks and the dark muttering, or perhaps that was why Euron was smirking. The first acknowledgement they gave anyone in the room came when Balon paused before the Stark party.

Cassel’s hand went to his sword, but Ned Stark shook his head.

Theon Greyjoy straightened his back and held his head high. “Father.”

Balon twisted his nose in disgust. “Standing with the enemy instead of your own kin?”

Theon’s posture grew straighter, stiffer. “You hadn’t arrived yet.”

Balon huffed and eyed his up and down. “Are you cozy there, are will you join your family?”

Theon looked to Robb Stark.

“Do you need your master’s permission, boy?” Balon snapped.

“No, of course not.” Theon joined their ranks as the newly arrived Greyjoys made a spot for themselves in the back of the room.

Sam watched as Robb Stark watched them go, an odd look on his face somewhere between displeasure and concern.

There was an interesting story there. The Citadel, which kept strict records of those who carried the Bloodlines, had initially marked Theon Greyjoy, youngest son of Balon Greyjoy, as killed during a raid, per reports from the Iron Islands themselves.

A few days later, the record keeper had had to amend the account, stating the boy was alive and well and living under the protection of the Starks. Still, for a solid two days, Theon Greyjoy had been legally dead. Watching the tense moment unfold between father and son, Sam wondered if the youngest Greyjoy might still be dead in the minds of his family.

It was a situation he knew all too well himself.

Robb continued to keep his eyes trained on Theon like a hawk, until Sam coughed uncomfortably. “I’ll just, uh…check on the arrival status of our last guests.” He nodded towards the guard posted outside the Grand Master Alchemist’s chamber.

The most frustrating part was that he had seen a Martell airship in the harbor when they’d arrived, the crest of the Isle Sunspear emblazoned across the zeppelin’s side. Which meant that they were already here and had deigned to show up fashionably late.

The tension in the room was rising, and the sooner this meeting could commence and, subsequently, adjourn, the sooner everyone could retire to their own chambers. Sam was almost looking forward to his slab of concrete bunk in the dormitories.


	8. First Blood

ROBB

 

“I take it you find your accommodations comfortable?”

Robb started. He’d been busy staring at Theon—and pretending he wasn’t—that he hadn’t seen the Tyrell heiress slip away from her party to come stand beside him. She had a high, tinkling voice and a dress with an indecently low neckline.

“Oh, uh…” Robb sputtered awkwardly, aware that he wasn’t doing a good job of meeting her eyes. “We…uh…”

She gave a polite little titter, forgiving him his social clumsiness. “If you have any issue with your treatment, I’m afraid I would have to give the dusty old alchemists a stern talking-to.”

“I didn’t know the Tyrells held any sway over the Citadel,” Robb blurted out thoughtlessly.

“I did say a talking-to, didn’t I?” She smiled and held out a hand. “Margaery Tyrell.”

Robb took it, first in a handshake, then, realizing his manners, he bent to plant a kiss on her knuckles. “Charmed,” he said, gathering his wits. “I am—”

“Robb Stark of Isle Winterfell,” she finished. “I know. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Robb blinked. “You have?”

“Your birthday was last week. You did get the gift my family sent, yes?”

Robb wracked his brain. In the excitement, the birthday had largely been forgotten. He did remember his mother remarking on a particular gift, though. “The roses,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah, yes, they were lovely. Especially on Winterfell. The Northern Islands aren’t known for their color.”

Margaery smiled beatifically.

“I’m glad I had the chance to meet you face to face,” she said. “I only wish it were under…better circumstances.” She glanced left, then right, as if checking to make sure no one was listening in. “I do wonder what this meeting is all about. All this hush-hush business…” She waved her hand.

“My father calls it a Culling.”

“Well…that’s rather ominous.”

“I heard it has something to do with the hearts.”

“I suppose we’ll find out when the other families show up,” Margaery said, then, with a wicked grin, added, “And when the Grand Master Alchemist decides to grace us with his presence.”

“You know the Grand Master Alchemist?”

Robb had heard much and more about the Grand Master Alchemist Petyr Baelish, called Littlefinger in his mother’s stories. She’d been only mildly shocked when she’d heard he’d made it to the top rank of Master Alchemist. “He was always such a social climber,” she’d mused. “He refused to let his lack of a Bloodline keep him down.”

According to Rodrik Cassel, Baelish still carried a flame for Catelyn. “As if he’d stand a chance,” the old man had laughed.

“‘Know’ is a strong word,” Margaery answered his question. “I’ve met him a time or two. A brilliant man, to be sure, but you must remember the first rule of dealing with brilliant people.”

“And that is…?”

“That sometimes the most brilliant people understand that maintaining the illusion of brilliance is more important than imparting actual facts.”

Robb shook his head. “Are you saying—?”

“—that the Grand Master Alchemist is something of a bull shitter?” She inclined her head. “I suppose you could.”

Robb was initially shocked at her coarse language. Of course, Theon said a thousand more vulgar things before breakfast, but hearing such words from a highborn lady, a princess no less…Sansa would be scandalized. Robb found himself grinning back, despite himself.

His eyes went to Theon again—he would love to be part of this conversation—and found the older boy staring back at him with an unreadable frown.

“Lovely family,” Margaery remarked, following his line of sight. “Honestly, I hadn’t expected them to show.”

Robb looked at her, then at Theon, standing uncomfortably stiff with his family members. One of them may be the man who had killed his grandfather. For the first time, Robb remembered his mother’s warnings about the Greyjoys and felt just a twinge of real fear.

“What do you know about them?” he asked her.

“I know they’re pirates,” Margaery answered in a hushed tone. “We’ve had dealings with them in the Reach. It’s common knowledge that they aren’t easily bargained with, at all. The only language they understand is force, and we have had to use it against them on more than one occasion.” Her face grew impish. “I must say, there is a bit of an...uncouth appeal to them. Your Greyjoy certainly fancies himself a gentleman thief.”

A rush of embarrassed heat flushed his face. “M-my…? It’s not like that. Theon and I—we’re just—he’s not my—” _Not my what? My slave? My lover?_

“You don’t need to justify anything to me,” Margaery said, hooking her arm through his. “I’m something of an expert in jealousy, you see. But you don’t need my eagle eyes to spot it on that one.” She winked at him.

Jealousy? Theon? That couldn’t be right. Jealousy over what?

He remembered Theon’s tantrum on the airship, the subject that had instigated it. But he and Margaery were just _talking_.

As Margaery looped their arms together, Theon’s expression further darkened.

_I have to sit at home at Winterfell while you’re out there fucking strangers_ , Robb thought with a sudden and intense anger. _Now the shoe’s on the other foot…not really, even…and **you** … **you’re** the jealous one?_

Margaery giggled airily into his ear. “What do you think? Should we tease him a bit?”

Right now, nothing sounded better.

“Just lean your head close,” Margaery whispered. “Every so often, laugh and look up at him.”

“Devious,” Robb said.

“Hmm, why thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Robb, please.”

In truth, though Margaery’s conversation tilted heavily towards gossip—dropping tidbits about the other Bloodlines gathered—Robb found her charming, a fast-thinker and well-versed in politics. And every time he glanced up, he found Theon glowering at him. It was satisfying in a way it shouldn’t be. Robb wasn’t a mean-spirited person. He shouldn’t take joy in this pettiness. But he did. Perhaps it felt good to finally put Theon in his place without doing something he’d truly regret, something that would _actually_ hurt Theon.

The Bond, for instance.

No, never.

He and Margaery conversed for quite some time before the sound of voices in the stairwell drew everyone’s attention. The doors opened on a man flanked by several women, some armed, some not. Robb recognized Sam, the apprentice alchemist, hovering behind them, wringing his hands.

The man stepped forward and flashed a dashing smile to the impatient crowd. “Forgive our tardiness,” he said. “My brother Doran could not make it up the stairs, as his leg is acting up. He sends his daughter, Arianne, to represent him in his place.” One of the unarmed women by his side half-bowed in acknowledgement.

“The Martells,” Margaery whispered, though Robb had gathered as much. “You know their Bloodline, I take it?”

Robb nodded. Their blood was poisonous—it was said that when it touched air, it became a vapor that killed anyone who breathed it in, but supposedly there were myriad ways it could be used to poison a person.

“Now that we’re all accounted for,” the beautiful and stern-faced woman from the Lannister party said, “perhaps we may learn why we’ve been summoned here.”

“Quite right you are.”

All heads, without exception, swung around as the large doors to the tower’s inner sanctum swung open, as silent and smooth as glass. A figured appeared, casting a long shadow across the antechamber floor. Robb craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the Grand Master Alchemist.

He wore much more elaborate robes than those of the apprentices, with a high collar and long, flowing sleeves. He was not a tall man, but his bearing demanded respect. His shrewd eyes cast about the room, taking them all in. Cataloguing them.

Grand Master Alchemist Baelish.

“Welcome, everyone.” He had a quiet, raspy voice. “I wanted to personally thank you for coming on such short notice. Some of you have traveled a great distance to be here.” His eyes landed on Ned for a moment, then lingered on Robb. “Please, step into my sanctum and all will be explained.”

They filed in uneasily. It did cross Robb’s mind that this could be a trap, but it seemed unlikely. And foolish, besides. Apparently Ned felt the same, because he acquiesced when one of the guards told Jory to remain outside. The stern-faced Lannister woman made a bit of a fuss when the bulk of a man who was obviously her bodyguard was likewise asked to remain outside, but quickly relented, perhaps realizing that she was simply prolonging matters. Robb also noticed that, aside from the one introduced as Arianne, all the women of the Martell party stood off to the side as well.

“They’re Vassals,” Margaery whispered. “Oberyn’s bastard daughters.”

Robb studied the Martell man with renewed interest. He was quite old to not have married and produced children to carry on his Bloodline.

The sanctum within was an enormous circular room, with a high, domed ceiling that allowed light to filter in from above, directly onto a large alchemy orb, about the size of a globe. As the doors closed behind them, Grand Master Alchemist Baelish brought the orb to light with a sweep of his hand. Its faint, white aura filled the center of the room but didn’t quite reach its outer edges. A map of the isles appeared on its surface.

“All of the great Bloodlines,” he mused, “together in one room. A meeting of this nature has not been called for centuries.” He paused, clasping his hands at his waist. “By now you now doubt suspect why you are here.”

“The outages,” one of the Tyrells said, stepping forward. It was the matriarch. Robb searched for her name. Lina? Lena? Oh! Olenna. Olenna Tyrell, right. She was a stooped old woman, with a puckered mouth that spoke of distaste for everyone in the room. “You would have to be a blind fool _not_ to have noticed.”

A faint murmuring filled the room.

“Ours went out for over a minute the other day,” Aunt Lysa said. “I thought we were going to fall from the sky.”

“Is that possible?” asked the single Baratheon representative—um, Stannis, Robb guessed, recalling the middle Baratheon brother was the bald-headed one. “The hearts have not failed since the islands were created. The First King—”

Baelish raised his hand in a bid for peace. When he finally received it, he began, “We are not certain what would happen if the hearts failed. _Total_ failure has never happened before. However…” He made a gesture, and the map floating on the alchemy orb’s surface gave way to a scrawl in a language Robb could not read. “We have records of a previous Culling, one that occurred over a thousand years ago.”

“And what do your records tell you?” Ned asked.

Baelish eyed everyone in the room. His glance landed on Robb but for a second, but it was enough to give Robb and uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“The hearts were failing,” he announced. “It started as it is now, a moment here, and a moment there. But the outages grew longer, more frequent. The islands began to crumble at the outer edges, no longer able to hold themselves together. Entire sub-islands collapsed into the core.”

Worried murmuring broke out across the room.

“But they found a way to stop it,” Uncle Edmure spoke up.

Baelish regarded him with hooded, uninterested eyes. “It stands to reason. We’re all still here, after all.”

“And what was their solution?” demanded Arianne Martell. “Perhaps we can recreate what they did.”

“They did find a solution,” Baelish agreed. He swept the surface of the orb again, and the scrawling symbols gave way to an image—unmistakable.

A human on their knees, head tilted back to bare their throat. A slash of red, like a thick choker on their neck. Blood pouring from the wound, downwards, into a vast chasm.

“Blood sacrifice.”

Everyone broke into angry murmurs, which quickly crescendoed into a cacophony. Outraged and indignant cries filled the sanctum, booming off the rounded walls. Everything became noise, and Robb felt ill. Like he was going to suffocate.

“Is that a joke!?” someone yelled. Robb couldn’t see who.

“Not a very funny one if it is,” someone else yelled back.

Baelish held out his hands to regain order. “My lords and ladies! I assure you, it is no joke.” He moved his hand again, and the image scrolled, following the blood trail downwards into the chasm, where a giant, floating heart seemingly accepted it readily.

Not an alchemy orb.

A heart.

A human heart.

“The members of the Culling agreed that the best way to ensure the hearts continued to beat was by sacrificing one member of each family and infusing the hearts with new blood.”

The room became louder, and Robb’s throat clenched. Was the Grand Master Alchemist implying…was the Heart of Winterfell powered by the blood of one of his ancestors, murdered by their own family members? That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. It was too awful to contemplate. A wave of dizziness overcame him, and he pitched forward.

“Careful.” He felt hands on his arms, steadying him. He spun around to see Theon. “Looks like you were about to introduce your face to the floor.”

“Oh…I…” Robb’s eyes flicked to the other Greyjoys. When had Theon left their side? “Yeah, I guess.”

Theon led him back to the crowd angrily demanding answers of Master Baelish.

“Are you suggesting we choose one of our own to murder?” Olenna Tyrell said, smacking her walking cane against the floor. “Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.”

“Barbaric,” Arianne Martell agreed.

“How would you even go about choosing?” Robb muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as it got lost in the sea of protests. He thought he might be sick again as he contemplated his family gathering around, deciding which of them would need to be killed to keep Winterfell from crumbling into the core.

“It would be no contest in my family,” someone else muttered, just loud enough for Robb to hear. He glanced over to see Tyrion Lannister—of course Robb knew him, even if he’d never seen the man before; you knew the Imp the moment you saw him—glowering but not with too much intensity. Almost downright self-deprecating.

“Perhaps the records are wrong!” Ned’s voice carried across the room.

“Yes,” Aunt Lysa said. “Yes, of course. Maybe you misread them. Let us see them for ourselves.”

Master Baelish sighed and gestured to the alchemy orb. “They are in a long-dead language.”

“Then you must have misread them!” Lysa persisted. She arguably had the most at stake in this, since her son was the last living member of House Arryn. He would be the default sacrifice, Robb realized with a fresh wave of nausea.

“Our best scholars consulted the translation carefully. We are confident—”

“But what if you’re wrong?” Ned asked, stepping forward. “Suppose we do this thing you’re asking, kill our own, feed their blood to the hearts. Suppose it doesn’t work. What then?”

Baelish’s eyes narrowed. “The texts—”

“The Ninth Heir!”

All heads turned to the corner, where apprentice alchemist Sam had apparently been standing this entire time, listening in. He had a look of revelation on his face, one that quickly faded when he realized he had the room’s undivided attention. For a man who wanted to be ignored, he had a habit of making himself known.

“What are you still doing here?” Baelish snapped. “Go find your master and have him put you to task on something useful.”

“No,” Ned said, holding up a hand to shush Baelish. “What is the Ninth Heir?”

“Oh, well…” Sam blinked, as if he hadn’t truly expected to be called upon to speak. “It might be the answer you’re looking for.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more doodles. From left to right: examples of what the island clusters look like (shamelessly copied from a map of Westeros), and Margaery.


	9. Hearts and Minds

SAM

 

They were all looking at him, every powerful person on the Western Hemisphere, staring at him and waiting for him to explain.

Sam coughed to clear his throat. “It’s in the old history books. The ninth son of the First King, the founding member of Dragon Isle.”

“A fairytale,” Cersei Lannister scoffed.

“N-not necessarily.”

Sam took a step towards the large alchemy sphere, and when Grand Master Alchemist Baelish didn’t stop him, he reached out a hand bring the projection of the globe. The horrid image of the blood sacrifice disappeared. The islands skimmed smoothly along the surface of the orb until he found what he was looking for.

“There’s some g-geological evidence that a ninth island did exist at one point, right in the middle of the Expanse.” He gestured to the relevant part on the world map. “Bits of rock we’ve found that don’t seem to be native to any other island…unexplained wind patterns…um…”

“Are you telling me,” Jaime Lannister asked, “that the stories of the Day Princess and Night Prince are…real?”

A half-forgotten memory came to Sam, of his mother reading to him about the fabled ninth island, Dragon Isle, where a beautiful princess with white hair ruled the day and a prince with black hair ruled the night. They had the power to summon the dragons of earth and air, who created the islands out of their bodies. “Because, as everyone knows,” she’d said, turning to the final page, “our islands are built on the bodies of dragons. You can still feel their beating hearts today.”

Sam had asked if that was a true story. His mother had only offered him a knowing smile.

Later, as Sam learned about science and alchemy, he supposed it was just a fairytale.

But...

“Is that true?” Robb Stark asked. “The ninth island?”

“Oh, well…” Sam became flustered again. In his first year at the Citadel, he had been made to memorize the lineages, study esoteric tomes of forgotten lore, translate ancient scrolls, and determine which accounts were reliable and which were not. His instructors—the ones who liked him anyway—gave him top marks and assured him that he was especially adept at parsing dead tongues. Which gave him the confidence to respond, “Well, I would say there’s enough evidence to suggest that…yes, yes it is.”

More murmuring, and Master Baelish gave him a withering look. “You’re speaking out of turn. And about subjects you know nothing about.”

Sam shrank back, realizing just how much he’d overstepped his boundaries. He was just an apprentice, after all, whereas Grand Master Alchemist Baelish had been studying these subjects longer than he’d been alive. He never should have let his ego get the best of him. He should have—

“And the heir?” Robb Stark pressed over Baelish’s scolding. “The lost Bloodline. They say it can be used to summon dragons.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cersei Lannister scoffed again. “Dragons don’t—”

“Ah, but they do exist, my dear.” Euron Greyjoy stepped forward, a wicked grin on his blue-stained lips. His lithograph had shown a young man with two eyes, but Sam knew him just the same, from all the stories he’d heard. Not pleasant stories. “I have seen them with my own eye, in the far-off skies to the east.”

Cersei Lannister glared back at him, unflinching, arms crossed in front of her. “I believe you’ve seen a great many things in your fever dreams.”

“What does the Grand Master Alchemist think on this matter?” Lysa Arryn, nee Tully, demanded, and all attention was back on Master Baelish.

Baelish pinched the bridge of his nose in thought, or perhaps annoyance. “We have found skeletons of beasts that may have once been dragons,” he began. “But a living one has not been recorded in recent history, and the ancient accounts are…unreliable, at best.”

“And yet you say the ancient accounts are our best option.” Lysa Tully-Arryn pushed her way towards him so forcefully that he backed away, as if expecting an attack from her. But she simply clasped her hands to her chest, beseeching him. “Please. If there is any chance, _any_ chance for an alternative, you must let us investigate it.”

“And I would.” Master Baelish put a hand over his heart, a look of deepest sympathy on his face. “But what is there to investigate?” He pointed to the map, to the empty expanse on the globe. “There may be some evidence that a ninth island existed at one time, but it doesn’t exist anymore. And these stories of a ninth heir—”

Sam took a deep breath.

“A-actually…”

“By the name of the First King!” master Baelish bellowed, spinning on his pointed-toed boots. “What is it now, _Apprentice_ Samwell?”

“Well…um…I had a thought…”

“Speak your mind, boy! Since we’re foregoing decorum and rank, might as well tell us your thought.”

Sam went ramrod straight, feeling like a rabbit caught in the open. “We still have the unidentified rock specimens in the academy catalogue,” he spat out in one quick breath. “We could use them to create a homing orb that might lead us to…”

“To what?” Master Baelish tapped his boot impatiently. “We’ve already established that there’s nothing _there_.”

“But it might be worth investigating anyway,” Lysa Arryn said. “If there’s even a slim chance that we might find something there…someone who might have a better answer…isn’t that worth pursuing?”

A murmur of agreement went up among the gathered. Sam felt a swell of vindication, especially the look on Master Baelish’s face the moment he realized he was outnumbered.

“How long do we have?” Eddard Stark finally asked. “How long until the hearts fail altogether and the islands start crumbling?”

Master Baelish ran a hand over his face. “There’s no way of knowing. The hearts have never failed _altogether_. But at the current rate we’re going…we’ll be experiencing serious power outages within the month. After that…?” He spread his arms wide.

“A month,” Lysa Arryn said. “A month. That should be enough time. Shouldn’t it?” She turned to the others. “ _Shouldn’t_ it?”

“I’ll do it.”

Dead silence fell as Euron Greyjoy made himself known once again, still smirking.

“Are you insane?” Edmure Tully cried, so loud his voice cracked.

“Absolutely not!” Lysa Tully-Arryn agreed. “I will not leave my son’s life in the hands of a pirate…a murderer…a Greyjoy!”

Euron threw his head back and laughed, while Balon Greyjoy sneered at her. “And who from your anemic Bloodline would you send?”

“Watch who you call ‘anemic,’” Edmure Tully shot back. “Isle Riverrun could muster twice the force of Isle Pyke.”

“I think,” Asha Greyjoy spoke up, “he was referring to your sister’s sickly whelp.”

Lysa Tully-Arryn’s face went purple. The tension in the room went from palpable to pungent. Sam took a few careful steps towards the wall, beginning to wish he hadn’t said anything at all and that he could just disappear into the wall.

Lysa swelled with righteous indignation. “At least I protect my son,” she leveled. “You—” She jabbed a finger at Balon Greyjoy. “—have been using my sister to tend your cuckoo’s egg for ten years now.”

“You’re talking about me?” Theon Greyjoy wrinkled his nose.

“That boy,” Lysa said, ignoring him, “has brought nothing but headache to my sister’s family, just like your entire worthless line has brought nothing but heartache to anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of crossing your path.”

“Take that back!”

Sam was startled when Robb Stark, not one of the Greyjoys, was the first to respond.

“Take that back, Aunt Lysa,” he repeated, glowering at her. His fists, clenched at his side, trembled.

Eddard Stark pulled his son back in line. “You go too far, Lysa,” he said. “Theon is…loyal to Robb.”

“Because you’ve enslaved him,” Balon shot back through gritted teeth. “You’ve…corrupted him…perverted him with your Bloodline.” He spat on the floor. “And you call us barbarians.”

“He hasn’t!” Theon jumped in to defend himself. “I’m not…he hasn’t…”

“But you are his Bond slave,” Jaime Lannister pointed out.

“Servant,” Robb corrected. “Only _Lannisters_ have slaves.”

“A matter of semantics,” Jaime replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “At the end of the day, he does your bidding. If using pretty words allows you to believe you have some higher ground on us, then by all means, continue on.”

Robb’s face went red, but it was Theon who was close to incandescent. As least Sam knew he wasn’t the only one who would rather be anywhere else at the moment.

“Theon’s the most reliable person in this room,” Robb continued, completely oblivious to his friend’s discomfort. “In fact, I nominate we send Theon to investigate the ninth island.”

“Robb…” Eddard Stark began in a warning tone.

Robb ignored him. “If there’s anything to find, he’ll find it and come straight back to report. Even if nobody here trusts a Greyjoy, you can trust Theon because we’re Bound by blood. His honor’s as good as mine.”

Lysa looked like she was going to object, but she didn’t get past opening her mouth when Theon stomped his foot on the ground, loud enough to echo off the sanctum’s high walls.

“I’m not your errand boy, Stark,” he proclaimed. “I’m not your tame little pet or your lapdog. I’m not your slave _or_ your servant. I don’t take orders from you or anyone. I do as I please, and I don’t need your _permission_ , I don’t need your _approval_.”

Robb Stark took a step back, as if he’d been struck.

Theon curled his lip. “Do your own damn dirty work.” He then turned and walked away. Just like that. The thick heel of his boots clicked as he made his way towards the massive doors leading back out to the antechamber.

“ _Theon_!” Eddard Stark bellowed, but Master Baelish held up a hand.

“Let him go,” he said. “No one is a prisoner here. You’re all free to leave any time you please.”

There was a general mumbling, as if others were considering leaving as well.

“However, I would advise against it,” Baelish was quick to remind them. “There is, after all, still the matter at hand.”

“We’ll send someone to investigate,” Tywin Lannister said.

“Who?” Edmure Tully challenged, spreading his arms wide. “Who would _you_ chose? Your golden son? Your daughter?”

Tywin eyed him dangerously. “I suggest we put it to the vote.”

There was much clamoring after that, as everyone gathered in tightly around Baelish, screaming, yelling, vying for his attention. Sam took several steps back, glad to have everyone focused on something else besides him. Until he saw Robb Stark break away from the crowd and come right at him, an unreadable intent in his eye.

Sam took a stumbling step backwards, but Robb grabbed his forearm and yanked him forward. “Do you think you can make that homing orb? Now?”

“Uh…” Sam’s mind blanked. “Y-yes.” He nodded furiously. “Yes, I think so. I j-just need to get into the geological department and—”

“Good,” Robb interrupted him. Still gripping Sam’s arm, he dragged him forward, towards the doors Theon had exited through.  “We’re taking matters into our own hands.”


	10. Blood Brothers

THEON

 

Theon picked up another pebble and hurled it, watched it suspended in the air for a moment or two before beginning its plunge over the edge of the cliff to the Core below. It was satisfying to watch it just…disappear.

He bent to pick up another when he heard footsteps and ragged breathing behind him. He turned to see Robb with Apprentice Sam in tow.

Theon really didn’t feel like talking to him right now. Either of them, but especially Robb. He scooted back from the balcony’s edge and hopped to his feet, ready to leave.

Robb’s eyes narrowed, and Theon could see him trying to restrain an order to keep him in place. “Theon, please don’t run,” he called down the hall instead.

A request, not a command. So Theon didn’t run. He stood and waited for Robb to come to him, Sam huffing and puffing behind him.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I…” Robb looked down at his hands, as if they could help him somehow. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then looked up, determination burning in his blue eyes. “I’m sorry. I mean, if I said anything back there,” he nodded with his head towards the Black Tower, rising into the sky above them, “that embarrassed you in front of your family. I didn’t mean to imply that you were…are…my servant or anything like that.” He took a step forward. “You know you’re my brother, right?”

Theon snorted. “Spare me your meaningless sentiments,” he said. “Am I your ‘brother’ when my cock is jammed down your throat?”

He grinned in malicious glee at the embarrassed looks on both Robb’s and Sam’s faces.

“I didn’t come here to fight.” Robb opened the collar of his shirt and pulled out the chain he wore around his neck; on the end dangled the truth orb Theon had given him for his birthday. It glowed in the twilight. “It’s green. That means you’re still my friend.” He thrust it in front of Theon’s face. “You’re still my friend, _aren’t you_?”

Theon stared at the orb, then Robb’s earnest face. He sighed. “Stark…”

“I want you to find the ninth island.”

Theon’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I-it’s not an order,” Robb said quickly, tucking his necklace into his shirt and readjusting his cravat. “I just…I trust you to do this. More than anyone in that room up there.” He gestured vaguely to the tower.

Theon regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Even Margaery Tyrell?”

“Oh for…” Robb ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “I don’t even _know_ Margaery. But I know you.” He surged forward and clasped Theon’s hands in his own. Theon tried to jerk away, but Robb was surprisingly strong. “I know that you’re brave, that you’re a skilled fighter—both with your Bloodline and with a bow and arrow. I know that you’re the best airship navigator on Winterfell. Even Jory says so. I know that I can trust you, that we can all trust you. If anyone can find this ninth island and find a way around Baelish’s solution...”

Yes, Baelish’s solution. Theon had definitely been shocked. And then his thoughts had strayed to who among his Bloodline would be chosen as a sacrifice. He had not been so confident it wouldn’t be him.

“…it’s you,” Robb finished. “It’s got to be you.”

“Robb…”

“Don’t do it as an emissary for me or my Bloodline. You can even take one of your family’s ships if you want. I don’t care about that. I just know that it’s got to be you.”

“You could always order me, you know?”

Robb shook his head. “No. Never. I’d do it myself before it came to that.”

“You really think I’m the man for this task?”

“I know it.”

Robb didn’t know it, but he could be a manipulative little bitch.

Theon let out a choked laugh and leaned his forehead against Robb’s. “Yeah, fine. I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry, I just…” Robb broke free and turned to Sam, who looked markedly uncomfortable. “Sam made the homing orb. He’s going to go with you to guide the way.”

“He is?”

“I am?”

“Theon will need an alchemist in his crew,” Robb said. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be you.”

“B-but I’m not even a full alchemist yet.”

“We could get a Master Alchemist, sure,” Robb said, “or even a brother or sister junior alchemist, but you’ve proven that you know at least as much about this Ninth Heir than anyone else on this island.”

“I…” Sam shuffled his feet. “I suppose I could speak with Master Aemon. He might give me some time off from my studies.”

“Great!” Robb slapped him amicably on the back, perhaps a bit too roughly judging from Sam’s surprised yelp. “You can head out in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Sam asked with wide, terrified eyes. “That soon?”

“As soon as possible,” Robb said. “You heard Baelish. A month at most. We don’t have the luxury of waiting around.” He cast his eyes back towards Theon. “Do you think you can assemble a crew in that time?”

Theon shrugged, hoping he came off as nonchalant. “A skeleton crew, I suppose. But that’s all you need anyway.”

Robb’s face broke into a wide grin. “I knew you were the right one for this task.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Theon waved his hand dismissively. “What about you, Prince of Winterfell? Will you be joining us?”

The grin faded into an uncertain frown. “I want, I do, but…my family…”

Theon sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “Right, should have guessed.” _You’d choose them over me every time._

He looked up at the sky, where the first stars were starting to show. From below, the warm light of the Core radiated upwards. He found his mind wandering to his own family, seeing them for the first time in ten years. If the world was truly ending, he should want to be with them, right? Not gallivanting across the world looking for something that might prove to be a complete waste of time.

He didn’t, though. He didn’t want to see his father again, not until he had something to prove himself.


	11. Bleeding Heart

SANSA

 

A persistent rain had fallen over Winterfell for the past three days. Sansa pulled her shawl tighter about her in an effort to ward off the chill, but it did little good. She would be warmer inside, she knew, but three days cooped up inside the walls had nearly driven her to madness.

Her boots squelched against the damp grass. There was an undeniable beauty to the gardens in the rain, the soft lapping of raindrops against leaves, the smell of thick, earthy air clinging to the stepping stones. The flowers, heavy with water, bending down towards the earth, as if keeping their heads up were just too much effort.

Sansa knelt beside a row of bluebells, hunched over against the rain. There was not much color to be had on the palace grounds—or on Winterfell, or the Northern Islands in general—and Sansa had grown an affinity for the flower gardens long ago. She remembered a time when Mother would take them out into the courtyard—just her and Robb—and read them fairy tales on a sunny day.

Robb had quickly outgrown that; he wanted to spend more time playing with Theon. And now he was a man grown, an adult. Sansa supposed she would be following him shortly into adulthood.  No more playing make-believe with Jeyne; she would have a real husband, royalty like herself to carry on one of the noble Bloodlines.

She ran her fingers delicately along the bluebells, shaking water from them.

She wondered who he would be. A Lannister perhaps. Or a Baratheon. Or… She colored slightly. No, her mother would throw a fit. Even with the message they’d received from Robb, an update to keep them apprised of the situation at the Citadel. Robb had unflinching confidence in Theon; Catelyn Stark did not. Even if he returned successful, Theon Greyjoy…any Greyjoy…was beyond consideration as marriage material.

Well, whoever she ended with, she knew he would be handsome, tall, charming…safe.

She sighed, not entirely sure where the twinge of disappointment came from.

“Princess Sansa.”

Sansa stood and staggered back, a gasp catching in her throat when she saw the face peering out at her from between the bushes. A pale-faced man, all fleshy lips and icy eyes. The red of a bloodstone flashed from one of his ears.

“Wh-who are you?” she demanded, catching her breath and her feet. “How did you get in here? How…?” She looked all around for any trace of guards. Strangers should not be prowling the palace grounds.

“Princess,” the man said, stepping out from behind the bush.

He took a quick step back, arms raised in the air, as Lady emerged onto the path, teeth bared and hackles raised. Sansa gripped her direwolf’s mane for security. “Don’t come any closer,” she ordered the stranger.

“I mean you no harm, Princess,” the man said. “I’m a visiting noble, from the countryside.”

Sansa tilted her head in skepticism.

“It’s true. I can prove it. My Bloodline…” He held out a hand and pulled off his glove. In his other hand was a dagger.

Sansa tensed, and Lady growled.

“I…I’m just…” The man quickly slid the blade along the palm of his hand. Sansa flinched at the unexpectedness of it. But then the dagger was gone, and the man was holding out his hand, allowing a thin dribble of blood to hit the grass.

Immediately, a stem burst from the ground, shooting out leaves, unfurling at the top into a bulb. The bulb quivered, then opened to reveal a spectacular purple flower. Its petals danced in the rain.

Sansa watched it, entranced.

The man held up his hands, empty of the dagger now. “See? Quite harmless.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sansa breathed.

The man grinned. “A lesser version of the Stark Bloodline. While you are commanding men and beasts—” He nodded to Lady, who was still on high alert. “—we command plants.” He smiled down at the flower. “Such as it is.”

“We?” Sansa asked.

“Boltons,” the man said. “Ramsay Bolton, are your service, Princess.”

“Boltons?” The name sounded familiar. “You’re from the other end of the island?”

He smiled sheepishly. On such a big man, it was oddly cute. “Ah, you’ve found me out, Princess. I am but a humble country bumpkin. You’ll forgive me for startling you earlier. My manners…” He rapped a knuckle against his head.

Sansa still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten in, but he’d proven he was a Vassal, and anyone who was nobility at least had a reasonable excuse to be here. She soothed Lady’s hackles. “Lady, that’s enough,” she said. “Stand down.”

The direwolf reacted to her command instantly and sat back on her haunches. Lady had been her first Bond; Sansa never felt unsafe while she was around. If the man tried anything, Lady would likely rip his throat out without even being told to do so.

Ramsay Bolton stepped onto the path but remained a respectable distance from her. Out in the open, she could see that he was a rather large man, tall and broad, though certainly no handsome, charming prince. He was dressed in rough traveling wear, and if he hadn’t been able to prove otherwise, she might have taken him for a peasant playing dress-up in noblemen’s clothes.

He bowed at the waist, as if imitating what he had seen others do. “The stories of your beauty don’t do you justice, Princess.”

Sansa studied him a moment, trying to pin exactly what it was about him that seemed…wrong.

“What brings you to the capital?” she asked at last.

He smiled with teeth too big for his face. His canines were sharp, she noticed. “Business, on behalf of my father. You see, we’ve been having an issue out on the eastern end of the island. We—”

He stopped abruptly as a sound like a swarm of angry bees filled the garden, even over the sound of rain. Sansa shot a look over her shoulder. The lights twinkling in the palace’s windows flickered, sputtered, then went out. Steam from the chimneys wafted away and did not return; the heaters had gone out as well.

It felt as if ice had taken hold in her chest. She clutched her shawl tightly around her and closed her eyes, counting.

_One._

_Two._

“It’s happening here too?” Ramsay asked.

Sansa shut him out.

_Fifteen._

_Sixteen._

“Will the lights come back on?”

“I-it’s fine,” she said, holding up a hand to silence him. “It’s nothing to be concerned with.”

_Thirty-three._

_Thirty-four._

She’d never made it past fifty yet.

“Are you alright, Princess?”

“I’m fine. I’m just…”

_Fifty-five._

_Fifty-six._

Something popped, and she could feel the island coming back to life. She cracked open an eye. The light from the windows cut through the murky rain; steam began to rise in steady streams from the chimneys.

“See?” She forced a smile. “It happens sometimes.”

Ramsay had his neck craned upwards, eyeing the palace mistrustfully. “More often these days.”

“You needn’t worry,” she said. “My father and brother are seeing to the issue.”

“Are they?” He turned his icy stare back to her. “I had heard they had left the island. I thought, perhaps…”

Sansa gnawed at her lip. Should she tell him? Set his mind at ease? Robb had said his message was confidential, not to be spread to the common people lest it panic them more. But surely withholding information was more likely to cause panic. And Ramsay wasn’t common, after all. The same Bloodline that ran through her veins ran through his, if only weakly.

“My brother says he’s found a solution,” she said, wringing her hands. “There’s someone who can help.”

Ramsay drew his eyebrows together. “Someone?”

Sansa let her hands drop and held her back at straight as she could make it. She needed to exude confidence if she was going to put his mind at ease. “He’s sent his most loyal servant to find the Day Princess.”

No sign of recognition dawned on Ramsay’s face.

“Did your mother not read your stories when you were a child?”

It must have come out more condescending than she meant, because his face soured. She took a step back at the intensity of the shift in mood. Lady stood.

Just as quickly as it had come, the look disappeared from Ramsay’s face, and he smiled. A clearly forced smile. “No, my Princess, she did not. Who is the Day Princess?”

“The daughter of the ninth Bloodline,” Sansa explained. “The First King had nine children, who each inherited a portion of his power. The Ninth Heir had two children, a son who brought the moon each night and a daughter who raised the sun.” She stumbled a bit, feeling silly for reciting children’s fairy tales to a complete stranger. “One day, the son, the Night Prince, staged a rebellion, intent on bringing about a never-ending night. The other eight Bloodlines banded together, but even their combined strength was no match for the Night Prince. To stop him, the Day Princess used all of her power to lock the both of them away forever.”

Ramsay stared at her for a long moment. His forced grin had given way to utter confusion.

“I…I know it’s just a children’s story,” Sansa was quick to defend herself. “But Robb says that he found the Day Princess and that she has the power to stop the outages. The ninth Bloodline is said to be more powerful than any of the other eight.”

Ramsay’s smile returned. It didn’t look forced this time. It looked completely natural. Too natural. “Is that so?” He clapped his hands together. The left palm was still bleeding. “In that case, I must return home forthwith to inform my father of the good news.” He turned to go.

“Wait.” Sansa held out her hand. “You’re leaving…right now?”

“My questions have been answered,” he said.

“Yes, but…” Sansa looked up to the sky and felt droplets of rain on her eyelashes. “In the rain, and with night approaching quickly? Surely you can send a message?”

“Ah, I’m afraid our communications are rather…shoddy in the country.” He spread his arms wide, a guilty admission. “I could ride faster than a message could be delivered.”

“Ride? Not even take a carriage?” Sansa glanced about. “Won’t you at least come in and have your hand seen to?”

Ramsay looked down at his palm, as if he’d forgotten about the cut. “Yes, perhaps that’s wise.”

Sansa motioned to him. “Come. I’ll call the physician.”

“That’s very kind of you, Princess. The stories of your compassion, likewise, do you little justice.”

She felt herself flush despite herself.

He fell in beside her, though Lady pushed herself between them.

“Who did you say your brother sent to find the Day Princess?”

“Oh.” Sansa reeled a moment, taken off-guard. “Theon,” she blurted. “Theon Greyjoy. My brother’s Bond servant.”

“A competent man?”

“And a loyal one,” Sansa agreed. “I have no doubt he will return with the Day Princess and these outages will be fixed within the fortnight.”

“Then I have the utmost confidence as well,” Ramsay said. “In fact, your news has given me renewed hope…”


	12. Blood Will Tell

DAMON

 

Damon was not best-pleased. He’d received a message from Ramsay over an hour ago to bring the carriage around. The rain was not good for the mechanical horses, and it was freezing in the little box beside. He tugged on his fingerless gloves and breathed into his hands, hoping to warm them up a bit.

Of all the miserable…

There was a sharp rap on the side of the cab. Damon jumped up, pissed at being caught unaware, and scrambled to open the door. There was Ramsay, looking like a drowned cat. Damon realized his clenched hand was wrapped in bandages. He was smiling though. Damon wasn’t sure how to read it. His meeting with the princess couldn’t have gone over too well if he was already calling it quits.

The cab rattled on its wheels as Ramsay entered. “Back to the Dread Fort.”

“I thought you were supposed to seduce the princess while her father was away.”

“Yes, Sansa is a lovely girl. Perhaps I will be able to play with her later. But for the moment, a better opportunity has presented itself.” He uncurled his hand, revealed a few strands of hair. Too dark to be Sansa Stark’s, and too short to be a woman’s besides.

Damon had to admit his curiosity was piqued. “What’ve you got there, Rams?”

“Hair from Theon Greyjoy’s hairbrush. Sansa truly is a lovely girl, and was quite accommodating on her tour.”

The name didn’t sound familiar.

“Take me to the Dread Fort,” Ramsay instructed. “I need Alchemist Tybald to make me a homing orb.”

 

END PART I


	13. PART II: HEAVEN AND EARTH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II, coming at'cha.

AIRS AND GRACES

* * *

 THEON

 

Theon was pissed and horny. He didn’t know which was more frustrating.

How had he let Robb rope him into this again? Because he couldn’t say no to the boy? Even disregarding the Bond, he just…couldn’t say no.

And then, to add salt to his wound, he’d had to spend their last night together gathering a crew—no small feat on such short notice—instead of in bed with his boy he couldn’t say no to.

And because it had been such short notice, he’d had to hire the first capable crewmembers willing to take his gold. They’d proven to be reliable so far, but not a single one was someone he’d want to share a bed with. Add to the fact that they didn’t have an alchemist onboard—well, at least a medical alchemist—and it really wasn’t a risk even worth taking.

He sat at the bow of the ship, watching the clouds pass by underneath. The wind whipped through his hair, and he lifted his head to feel more of its coolness against his skin.

He’d hired this crew, which made him the _de facto_ captain of this ship. He’d wanted this for a long time. A chance to prove that he could captain an airship on his own. Perhaps when he came back, Robb would give him his own crew and airship.

No. No, he didn’t need Robb to _give_ him anything.

He wasn’t doing this _for_ Robb. He was doing it for himself. And if he said it enough times, he might even start to believe that.

“Oh, never mind me, Captain.”

Theon looked up. Lights danced in his eyes from staring at the whiteness of the clouds for too long, but he recognized the general shape of Sam the apprentice alchemist.

“I just, uh…” Sam held out the homing orb, which glowed only a faint purple in the midday sun. “Just checking our bearings.”

Explaining himself, as if Theon had even asked.

“Is…is it alright if I call you ‘Captain?’ Is that the appropriate title?”

Theon sighed and leaned back against the rigging. The hum from the ship’s gears vibrated straight through his bones, sending a slight thrill to his dick. “Yeah,” he answered. “‘Captain’ is fine.”

Sam breathed in relief. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure—I wasn’t quite clear what you do for Robb Stark.”

“You mean besides fuck him ‘til he can’t walk properly?” Theon grinned at the look of discomfort that passed over Sam’s face. “I guess my technical position is extradition specialist.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “You’re a bounty hunter?”

“I hunt down criminals who’ve committed crimes on Northern soil, bring them back to face the King and Queen’s justice. If they cooperate, that is. I’ve also had to be an executioner on occasion, when my hand if forced. Try to avoid that, though. The bureaucracy…”

“Well, I know a thing or two about that,” Sam laughed in agreement. “But still, you’re like an…assassin.”

Theon shrugged.

“Your Bloodline is perfect for it.”

“A Greyjoy is never unarmed,” Theon agreed. “We have a saying: If you can bleed, you can fight.”

“And you can make any weapon out of your blood?”

“Anything I can hold in my hand.” Theon paused, wondering if he should divulge that. Then again, if Sam specialized in Bloodlines, this was probably all common knowledge to him.

“Can you show me?”

“I don’t know. That sounds pretty irresponsible.”

“Please. I would love to see the Greyjoy Bloodline in action. For my studies.”

“Well…since you put it that way.” Theon smirked and pushed off from the rigging. He held out a hand, flashing the rings he wore. “It doesn’t take that much to get started. A pinprick is all you need.” He pressed on the ruby gemstone on the ring of his index finger. It took some pressure to get the spring-loaded needle to go off, pricking his flesh like a bee sting.

Blood trickled from his finger into the palm of his hand. He felt it like another limb of his body, willing the wound to open wider, collecting more blood than should occur from such a tiny knick. Within a few seconds—and a few seconds could mean the difference between life and death in a fight—he had enough to form a simple dagger.

It was his favorite weapon, aside from a bow and arrow. Small, easy to form, easy to fight with, it allowed him to take advantage of his frame to jab at an enemy with quick movements. Still, he could do better. Make a show of it.

It took more effort to grow the dagger into a short sword and it left him slightly light-headed, but it was worth it for the look of wide-eyed awe on Sam’s face.

“That’s incredible. And it’s solid blood?” He held out a tentative hand. “May I touch?”

“Go ahead. It’s solid.”

Sam laid his hand on the blade, delicately, as if he would break it.

“It’s solid,” Theon repeated. “I can cut a man in half with this.”

“Amazing,” Sam breathed.

“But if you want something a little less solid…” Theon forced more blood into the weapon, forced it to reshape. It flowed outward, taking on the form of a whip. Theon took a step back—Sam did likewise—brought the whip up, and gave it a good swing that cracked the air like a thunderbolt. Even if it was shorter than an average whip, it was still a fairly impressive display, Theon felt.

It also left him dizzy. He had trained enough to keep on his feet, even when the world started to spin around him, so hopefully Sam didn’t notice.

Still, probably best not to leave his blood outside his body for too long. He drew it back in as easily as if were his tongue poking in and out from between his lips. The rush of blood back to his brain set off another round of dizziness, but it would pass quickly.

He blinked the black spots from his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin when he found Sam standing much closer than he’d been a moment ago. “That was incredible. Um…” He pointed at his own hand. “Can you…heal…after that?”

Theon pried the ring loose and slid if halfway up his index finger to show Sam the needle prick left behind. “Not exactly,” he explained, “but I can keep myself from bleeding while it heals.”

Sam’s eyes went wider, if that was possible. “You can keep yourself bleeding to death?”

“Never had any need to, but…yeah.” Theon slid the ring back into place. Only when it was there did he consider whether he should have shown Sam. Not many knew he had a means of drawing blood, even if he was disarmed. He even slept with it on…just to be safe. Ned, Jory, and Robb were the only ones who knew. But Sam knowing…there couldn’t be any danger. He shrugged it off.

“Thank you for showing me,” Sam said. “I don’t often get a chance to watch a true Bloodline in action. My father has a touch of it, but it’s not quite the same thing.”

Theon was a bit surprised at the revelation. “You come from a Vassal family?” The apprentice was well-spoken, but he had chalked that up to his education.

Sam’s smile was distinctly embarrassed. “We’ve served the Tyrells for centuries. My father sometimes has a feeling for danger, and his father sometimes had premonitions in his dreams. But I suppose it grows weaker with every generation.” He spread his arms wide. “I’ve got none of it, I’m afraid.”

Ah, Theon was getting more of a sense of this boy.

“What’s our heading?”

Sam’s face scrunched in confusion.

Theon nodded towards the homing orb still clutched in his hands. “It’s working?”

Realization dawned and Sam fumbled with the orb. “Ah, yes.” He held it up, but it didn’t seem to be _doing_ anything, not to Theon’s eyes at least. “It’s definitely reacting and getting stronger the farther east we travel. I would guess that we’re perhaps…” He studied the orb intently. “Two or three days away from wherever it’s leading us.”

Theon clapped him on the shoulder. “Wonderful.” Perhaps this would all be done with sooner than he’d expected.

“Lord Greyjoy!” A harried shout rang out from across the ship’s deck.

Both Theon and Sam spun to see the ship’s actual captain—a big redheaded man—stomping their way. Theon struggled to remember the man’s name and vowed to give him a dressing down for calling him “Lord Greyjoy.” If the man absolutely refused to call him “Captain,” then “Prince Greyjoy” would suffice.

The man approached them. “A ship has been spotted off to our north,” he said. “They seem to be closing in fast on our port-side.” He offered a shrug. “Just thought you should know.”


	14. Middle Ground

RAMSAY

 

From the first moment, Ramsay knew Theon Greyjoy was someone he would very much enjoy breaking. Leaning over the railing of his ship, a smirk on his face. Handsome face, nice teeth. His hair tousled, his expensive clothes meticulously rumpled to appear unkempt. Boy had not spent a day in actual dirt, Ramsay was willing to bet. But mostly it was that look. That contemptuous look, as if Ramsay and his crew were beneath noticing.

He cupped his hands and called out over the gap separating their two ships, “Citadel send you?”

“Citadel?” Damon called back, mocking surprise. “Naw, we’re just merchants from the Northern Islands.”

“Then why have you been following us for the last thirteen hours?”

Damon shrugged. “We’re following the same trade route, I imagine.”

Theon Greyjoy smirked, and Ramsay knew that he needed to have his teeth knocked out.

_In good time_ , he consoled himself. _In good time_.

“You’ve got two hours to chart a new course, or my ship blows yours out of the sky.”

_Why you little_ …

Ramsay smirked back. “There’s no need for that, now, is there?”

Theon Greyjoy— _what a terrible name_ —cocked his head, a condescending grin on his face. “Who’s in charge on your vessel?”

The Boys all looked at Ramsay, giving him away immediately.

“Ah, the ox over there,” Theon said. “I see.” He scratched at his chin. “What’s your name?”

“Ramsay,” Ramsay answered, glad for once that he wasn’t wearing fancy clothes. This prick might have asked for a last name if he were.

“Ramsay,” Theon repeated thoughtfully. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve been following us, or am I going to shoot cannonballs in your hull to be safe?”

“We weren’t following you,” Ramsay insisted. “Truly. We’re headed to Storm End. That’s not a crime, is it?”

Theon narrowed his eyes, smug bastard. “I’m half-inclined to believe you, Ramsay. If the Citadel had sent you, they would have told you who I was. And if you knew who I was, you’d be showing me the proper amount of respect.”

He puffed himself up and grabbed hold of the rigging to foist himself up onto the railing. The pudgy man in alchemist’s robes squawked in surprise and tried to pull him down, but Theon stood tall, hair and coat whipping in the wind. Ramsay would love to hear his screams disappear as he plummeted into the Core.

“I’m Theon Greyjoy!” he announced, pounding his chest. “Prince of the Iron Islands, holder of the Greyjoy Bloodline. And I’m feeling fucking merciful today. If you’re truly merchants, you’ll find another route to take. I don’t want to see your piece of shit ship off my stern again, understand?”

“I…” Ramsay gritted his teeth to keep from saying what he really wanted. “I understand. Please forgive me, my Prince. We didn’t realize you were royalty.”

“Well…now you do.” He made a flippant gesture with his hand, shooing them away. “Go. Now. This is your final warning.”

“Of course, my Prince.” Ramsay offered a half-bow, which was almost physically painful. He turned to the Boys, raised his voice enough to be heard from the other ship, and hollered, “We will find another route!”

He shared a knowing look with Skinner, who took the wheel in his hand and pulled hard to the right, causing the airship to turn in a slow, lazy arc away from their quarry.

Damon fell in beside him as they made their way back to the cabin. “What now?”

“We fall back,” Ramsay said. “We were too obvious. We’ll need to follow at a much greater distance so that their instruments don’t pick up on our presence. Luckily…” He felt for the homing orb in his pocket. “He can’t hide from us.”

Roose had not been best pleased when Ramsay had returned from his mission early. Even when Ramsay had told him about the new plan. Roose admonished him for listening to the stories of a stupid little girl. She should have been easy to seduce if she truly still believed in fairy tales.

How could Ramsay make him see? Roose wanted the power of the Starks, but the power of the Day Princess…the power to bring the other Bloodlines to heel…now, there was a true prize. He wouldn’t be King of the Northern Islands. He could be an Emperor, such as the western hemisphere had never seen before.

“We keep following them,” he repeated to Damon. “When they make land, take them by surprise. Kill them all.” He held up a finger. “Except the Greyjoy brat. He’s mine.”


	15. Terra Firma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extreme teenage angst and hints of melodrama.
> 
> Whew, finally got around to addressing an issue in this chapter, via some added dialogue. Thanks to [cotton_socks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cotton_socks/pseuds/cotton_socks) for the suggestions and to anyone else to pointed it out.

ROBB

 

Somewhere above deck, a mournful whistle blew a long, low blast, announcing that Winterfell Port was now in view of the naked eye. _Shit_ , Robb thought as he rubbed at his forehead. They would be making landfall in a few short hours, and he still hadn’t spoken with his father.

He’d been putting it off. But soon they’d be disembarking and his chances for a private conference together would be much, much smaller.

Dread in his gut, Robb pulled on his boots and stood. He wouldn’t miss the bed in this little cabin—Theon’s hammock had been much more comfortable—nor would he miss the rocking of the ship at night. It had never quite gotten so that he threw up, but it was bad enough that he wondered what Theon loved so much about airships.

As he made his way down the hall to his father’s private quarters, his mind drifted again to Theon, as it often had the last few days. Robb missed him terribly already. In an academic sense, it was no different than the dozens of other missions Theon had undertaken before, some that took him away for a whole month at a time. But on a superstitious level—perhaps even on a practical level—there was that niggling doubt in Robb’s mind. This could be the time Theon didn’t come back. Or that he came back too late.

Which was what he needed to speak with Ned about.

He paused at his father’s door. Took a deep breath. Steeled himself. Knocked.

“Come in,” Ned’s voice called.

Robb entered, peeking his head around the door. “Father.”

Ned had apparently heard the whistle too, as he was packing his luggage—a bag of more personal affects he kept on-hand in the cabin. The other suitcases were stowed in the hull and would be brought up by servants once they reached port. Ned turned from his bag, looking a bit startled at Robb’s presence.

“I wanted to talk,” Robb said, “about the Culling.”

“Not about your disobedience, then?”

“I did what I had to do,” Robb defended himself. “You know Theon is loyal. And competent. Who else among those…people would you have rather trusted?”

The harshness went out of Ned’s eyes. His shoulders slumped. “It is not that I don’t trust Theon. It’s that the other Bloodlines no longer trust us. You’ve damaged our reputation…our honor.”

It stung Robb to have that leveled at him by his own father, a man who held honor above all other virtues. But he wouldn’t be cowed. “They can decide whether we’re trustworthy or not when Theon comes back with more information.”

Ned sat wearily on his bed, groaning at his joints cracked. He was old, Robb realized suddenly. “You have faith that he _will_ return.”

“He will. Our Bond doesn’t just go away because we’re not—”

Ned held up a hand to silence him. “I know,” he said. “But your Bond cannot do the impossible. It cannot compel Theon to return with a solution if there is no solution to be had.”

Robb rocked back and forth on his feet. “I know,” he admitted. “That’s…what I wanted to speak with you about.”

Ned patted the bed, beckoning Robb to join him. Robb did, taking a seat next to his father.

“This matter,” Ned began, “is very troubling.”

Robb nodded in agreement. “If Theon doesn’t come back with a solution…” He paused and swallowed around the knot in the back of his throat. “If Theon doesn’t come _back_ …and we have to go ahead with Baelish’s plan…”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

“But if it _does_ …I want it to be me.”

Robb was busy staring at his hands, but he felt the bed shift as Ned turned to look at him. He didn’t want to see the expression on his father’s face.

“Robb…”

“I want to be the sacrifice. It should be my blood you use to repower Winterfell’s heart.”

“Robb, if it comes to that, it will be me.”

 He’d known Ned would say that. “We cannot afford to lose you, Father.”

“You will find a way to live on, Robb. Starks are strong.”

Robb stared angrily at his lap. “You would really leave us? Mother and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon? And me?”

“To ensure that you and your siblings have a land to grow up in and have children of your own? Of course.” Robb did look over at that. The pain he saw on his father’s face… “Think of your mother, Robb, how she would feel to see her firstborn so recklessly throw his life away. Think of your brothers and sisters. Gods, think of Theon. It would not be just your own life you’re throwing away.”

Robb took in a sharp breath. “If he comes back without any answers, his life is forfeit anyway.”

Ned sighed. “I know you mean well, Robb, but you have your entire life to prove yourself.” He put a hand on his shoulder, putting weight on it, like the day he’d taken Robb to see the heart of Winterfell. Nine years had passed, and yet Robb still seemed to be that naïve little boy. “It is not your burden to worry about.”

A wave of frustration came over him. He shook off his father’s hand and stood. “No, I suppose not.” He took several paces. “I suppose my burden is marrying whatever highborn whore you choose for me and making more Starks whose blood will replenish the heart.”

“Robb,” Ned snapped, a hard warning in his voice.

“You don’t get to just decide these things,” he snapped in a tone to match.

There was so much…energy under his skin. He wished he’d fought his mother and father harder when they’d announced he was to marry. He wished he’d told them about Theon. He wished people would recognize when he was trying to do something—offering up his life to save his family, sending Theon away not only because it was their best hope but to keep the man he loved from becoming a sacrifice to the heart of Pyke. And most of all, he was tired to being quiet. Tired of keeping it all in.

“I love Theon, okay?”

“Of course you do. You two—”

“Have been fucking since I was fifteen!” Robb interrupted, stunning Ned into silence. “But I knew I loved him, as more than a brother, by the time I was twelve. I don’t want to marry anyone. I only want to be with Theon, and if he’s going to die, I might as well die with him. And if that makes me an embarrassment…” He pulled himself up, propped up purely by the power finally saying these things gave him. “Then I suppose it wouldn’t be any great loss if I were the one to die.”

Ned stood as well. It was impossible to read the expression on his face. The tiny twitching in his eyes and lips went from angry to sad to confused and back.

“Robb…” He reached out a hand, imploring.

Robb turned away in disgust. And because his temporary courage was gone. Deflated. Gods, he’d really just said that, hadn’t he? There was no going back. It…didn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

“Sansa will be a better heir than I ever could be,” he said, turning for the door. “She’ll happily marry whoever you tell her to and probably won’t embarrass you in front of the other families.”

“Robb…” Ned stood but made no move to stop him leaving. “Robb, come back here.” As if his command alone should be enough. As if Robb were his Bond slave.

Robb shook his head and pushed open the door.

“Robb…”

Robb ran, feeling like a complete coward. The door slammed behind him; he didn’t hear it reopen, nor did he hear boots coming after him, nor his father’s voice. His head reeled as he ran. How had things gotten so out of hand so quickly? Why couldn’t he have just continued to control himself and kept quiet?

And why was it that every time he tried to do the right thing, it ended up blowing up in his face?


	16. Castle in the Sky

THEON

 

“Ummm…”

Theon looked over at Sam in annoyance. The boy had been fidgeting nonstop with the homing orb for the last few minutes, making noises like that to himself.

“What is it?” he finally demanded.

Sam looked up. “Oh, w-well…” He fidgeted with the orb again. “It…it’s here.”

Theon raised his eyebrows. “It? The lost island or whatever? It’s…?”

Sam nodded. “Here. Or, at least, it should be.”

They both peered out over the bow of the ship, but the panorama remained the same as it had the last four days: endless clouds in an endless sky. The weather had been a bit bumpy since they’d entered the Expanse, with winds buffeting the small vessel about, but the traveling itself hadn’t been too difficult. In fact, Sam had assured them all that the signal from the homing orb was getting stronger and stronger.

“Are you sure?” Theon asked.

Sam consulted the orb. “Yes,” he said. “It should be right…” He pointed straight ahead, to an empty span of sky. “There.”

Theon pressed himself into the wedge of the bow and leaned forward, craning his neck up and down. Only the Core below; nothing above. No sign of any island.

A thousand possibilities ran through his mind. Sam was mistaken. The orb was broken or miscalculated. The island they were looking for didn’t exist and had never existed and this entire journey had been a fool’s errand from the beginning. Or…

He squinted. “Sam,” he called.

The apprentice alchemist waddled forward. “Yeeees?” He drew the word out uncertainly.

Theon gestured, drawing a wide arc in the sky with his finger. “Those clouds there.”

“Altocumulus,” Sam said. “You can tell by the dispersem—”

“Do they usually curve like that?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Theon traced it again with his finger, unsure if Sam could see from his slightly altered vantage point.

Apparently he could, because the next words out of his mouth were, “Uh…hmm, well, that is a bit unusual.”

Unusual, but subtle. So subtle Theon hadn’t noticed it at first. The entire sky was filled with clouds, but at one specific point ahead of them, they sort of…curved, like a reflection through a glass orb. And the way they moved, just slightly slower than everything else around them.

Theon took a step back. “It’s in there,” he said, turning towards the navigation deck. “It’s hidden. Some sort of magic or alchemy.”

The man at the wheel was a mangy looking ruffian. Theon tapped his shoulder, earning an annoyed grunt.

“Twenty-three degrees starboard,” Theon announced.

The man nodded and turned the wheel. The ship pulled towards the curve in the clouds.

The wind started to pick up.

Perhaps a coincidence. Perhaps not. If there was some sort of concealing magic around the island, who knew what other safety measures had been put in place.

“Bad feeling about this,” the man at the wheel mumbled.

“I’m not paying you to tell me how you feel,” Theon mumbled back, even though he could feel it too. The prickling of the hairs on that back of his neck, that split-second before a static shock. “Just keep on track.”

The wheel shuddered in the man’s hands, and Theon could tell he was fighting it. Outside, the rigging snapped in the wind. Loose ropes and canvass took flight, and the sparse crew ran to batten everything down. Sam nearly took flight with his robes flapping around him as he ran for cover.

The prickling grew stronger and spread, down his arms and into his fingertips. It felt wrong, like every nerve ending was telling him they should turn back. Good thing he had his rational mind, and his rational mind was telling him that someone obviously didn’t want them finding whatever was on the other side of that distortion. And the things people didn’t want you to find were usually the best.

This was the sole thought in his mind as he felt a jolt, like a physical pain, in his gut.

The man at his side made a gasping, choking noise and pulled hard on the wheel.

“What are you doing, you idiot? I said stay straight on!”

“It’s going to kill us!” the man screamed, panic clear in his eyes. “”It’s going to—”

Theon shoved him aside and took hold of the wheel. He could feel the entire vessel juddering through his very bones, but he put force into his grip and corrected course.

“No!” the wheelman screeched. “You—you’ll kill us all!” He made like he was going to attack.

Theon jabbed the ring on his index finger, and before the man could even get his hands on him, he had a blood knife formed and held to the man’s throat, one-handed; the other hand steered the airship. “I _will_ kill you,” he hissed, “if you touch me again.”

The man held up his hands in surrender, but the flare of his nostrils still spoke of fear. Fine, so long as he feared Theon’s blade more.

The noise of the wind became deafening. On the deck, crewmates grabbed what they could and hunkered down. There was no sign of Sam, but hopefully he’d taken refuge below deck. Theon’s heart hammered in his chest, while his stomach seemed to have pitched straight into his groin. Dizziness like a vertigo—or what Theon imagined vertigo feel like, it was not a sensation he was familiar with—overcame him, and dark splotches appeared before his eyes.

It felt like all the blood was rushing from his head, but that was a sensation he _was_ familiar with. More than familiar with. Years of training with half his blood outside his body had given him something akin to muscle memory…blood memory.

He fought the urge to collapse. The panicked man _did_ collapse, but Theon kept his feet steady. Couldn’t even see where they were headed anymore, but if he could keep the wheel steady, their course straight…

The storm reached a fever pitch.

He staggered as the jostling of the airship abruptly halted. There was no discernible change in the sky—it was the same endless blue, endless clouds as before—and yet the wind was gone, as was the overwhelming dread. Whatever ward the ancients had put up had ultimately proved no match for Theon Greyjoy.

He drew his blood knife back in and allowed himself to slump against the wheel. A few breaths to recover, and then he looked up, ahead.

Where there had been only empty sky before now floated an island. Not a terribly large island, just large enough for a single-spired castle. The earth of it was crumbling away, and bits of roots stuck out from the bottom. If this was indeed the fabled ninth island, it was a rather pathetic showing indeed.

Nonetheless, pride filled Theon’s chest. He’d done it. He’d found it.

He slapped the unconscious wheelman back into consciousness. Now that the “danger” had passed, he looked appropriately shamefaced. Theon hauled him to his feet and pushed him against the wheel. “Do your job, you worthless lout,” he grumbled. “And be thankful I’m letting you off the hook for laying your hands on royalty…and your captain besides.”

The man seemed too dazed to be fully thankful, but Theon was too preoccupied to deal with him at the moment.

“Listen, man,” he said, giving him another swift slap to the face that seemed to sober him up a bit. “Do you think you can pull in close enough for me to hit ground?” He pointed with his finger to the bridge that might once have connected the island to something but now served only as a plank to a long drop into the Core. “There. Right there. Drop me off and stay there until I come back. Do you think you can manage that?”

The man nodded numbly, and Theon _tch’_ d in disgust.

He strode out onto the deck, where everyone was slowly re-gathering their wits.

“Captain!”

He turned at his name and saw Sam hustling over to him, hair a wind-tossed mess.

“Captain, you’re not planning on going in there…alone…are you?”

Theon made a show of looking around the vessel. “I would say I’m the only one truly qualified.”

“But you should bring some backup.”

“I don’t need backup.” Theon strode to the railing and kicked the landing gate down. The plank dropped, suspended in midair, waiting to make contact with land as they pulled in closer. “Greyjoys don’t need backup.”

“B-but—”

 “Stay here,” Theon ordered. “I don’t intend I’ll be very long at all.”

As the ship sidled up alongside the bridge, Theon took a running leap from the plank. His feet hit dirt, and he turned with a self-pleased grin to wave at Sam.

The bridge led directly to the castle. Theon walked along the stone path, overgrown with vines, a thick layer of dirt completely undisturbed. No human had set foot here for some time, that much was clear. For the first time, Theon felt a hint of uncertainty.

What if the Ninth Heir wasn’t here? What if he had died years and years ago and left none of the answers they were looking for? What if he had to return empty-handed?

No, there was no room for hesitation. He’d just proven that point by forcing his way through the ward. Those who hesitated never accomplished anything.

He strode to the front door—wooden, three times his height—and gave them a rough, experimental shove. They opened—not quietly, but not with any real resistance either. Whoever lived here obviously expected the wards to be enough, much to his luck.

It was dark inside, and the small lighting orb he kept in his coat pocket gave him only three or four paces’ worth of light. As he made his way into the open foyer, the first thing he noticed was the smell. A thousand years had left a thick cloud of must and mold in the air. Each footstep kicked up dust, leaving a trail behind him like he was walking through new fallen snow. He brought his sleeve up to cover his face against the assault on his nose and throat.

The architecture was old, like the older parts of Winterfell’s palace. A winding staircase rose upwards into the spire, held aloft by pillars. Faded tapestries that Theon couldn’t make out in the dark lay flush against the wall. There were no windows.

“Hello!”

His voice echoed off the walls and up the staircase. A bit of dust rained down on him, but other than that, there was no response.

Well, there was no one down here. The spire seemed the most likely place to search next. Holding the light aloft with one hand and using the other to cover his mouth, Theon made his way up the stairs.

They weren’t as tight and narrow as some of the lesser staircases in Winterfell’s palace, making them not nearly as perilous to navigate but tedious. They wound seemingly endlessly upwards and upwards, always hugging the walls. There were no intermediate floors, no landings or mezzanines. Just more stairs and dust and mold.

“There had better be something up here,” Theon muttered to himself between coughs.

After an eternity, he lifted his head and saw, perhaps a story above, a wooden door. Smaller than the entrance, about the size of a bedroom door. Whatever—whoever—he was looking for had to be on the other side. Images flashed through his mind—returning victorious back to the Citadel, Robb congratulating him, his father nodding in dignified pride. “You’ve made something of yourself, boy. You’ve made the Greyjoys proud.”

These scenes gave his boots springs, and he shot up the rest of the staircase in a flash. The door was before him. He gave it a few knocks. “Hello!”

Nobody answered.

He grabbed the iron door ring, the grit of its age biting into the palm of his hand. He pulled.

The door was not locked.

He let himself in.

Inside was a room. Furnished as it would have been a thousand years ago, and yet none of the furniture—the bed, the dresser, the chest—had a spot of dust on them. The overwhelming scent of must had vanished like a fog. Theon took a step in, towards the bed. There was a figure there. Turned on her side, away from him. A woman. The thick, curly hair was a dead giveaway. The Day Princess? The Ninth Heir?

Theon crept closer. “Hello?”

The woman didn’t stir.

“Hello,” he tried again, louder. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder to shake her into wakefulness. “Are you the—?”

The woman rolled over. She had big gray eyes, with long, dark lashes, full lips, and a stubbled jaw. The two stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment. “Who the hell are you?”


	17. What on Earth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out notes below: Why Do They Talk Like That?

JON

 

It felt like he’d just closed his eyes. There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Dany? Had she changed her mind? Had she come back for him? He rolled over.

It wasn’t Dany.

“Who the hell are you?”

Jon did not recognize the man. He had dark, windswept hair and mischievous blue-green eyes, but mostly Jon noticed his odd clothes, which made him look like a prostitute. Needless to say, waking up to find such a person leaning over him was a bit alarming.

“Ar’ya th’ Ninther?” the man demanded. He had a strange accent, his vowels too clipped.

Jon bolted into a sitting position. He was still a bit groggy—what had Dany _done_ to him, exactly?—and he struggled to make sense of things. “Who _are_ you?” he repeated. “Did my father’s enemies send you? Are you here to finish what they started?” His eyes darted around the room. His sword. It would be in the chest. If he could get to it…

The man grabbed him by the arm. “Are. You. The Ninth. Heir?” He gave him a rough shake with every punctuation. His words were easier to understand that way, but…

“Unhand me,” Jon ordered through gritted teeth.

“’Ser th’qeston.”

“ _You_ answer _my_ question.”

The man’s nostrils flared, but he released Jon’s arm. It was clear they were not speaking exactly the same language, but close enough to understand. When he spoke, it was slower and easier to decipher. “I’m Theon Greyjoy, and I’ve traveled a long way to find the Ninth Heir.”

“Greyjoy?” Jon’s mind reeled. He didn’t know a Theon, but he did know a Vickon Greyjoy. Or had heard his father mention him, at least. “So…you’re here to kill me?”

Theon Greyjoy gritted his teeth. “I will if you don’t answer my question. Now.”

“I’m Jon Targaryen,” Jon said, meeting the man’s eyes, “son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Are you the Ninth Heir?”

“No,” Jon answered quickly.

But his groggy mind was catching up with him. There was an intruder in the castle. That could only mean his mother and father were dead. Where was Dany? She said she’d be here when he woke up. She’d promised.

“Are you sure?” Theon pressed, hands on his hips.

Jon didn’t answer that, because he wasn’t sure. If both his parents and Dany were…he didn’t want to think about it, but if they were all dead, then he _was_ the heir of the ninth Bloodline.

He drew his knees up. He suddenly didn’t feel like facing his death with any sort of stoicism. “What happened?”

“Th’earts’re failing’n th’world’is gon’t’end if I dn’t find th’Ninther.”

Jon couldn’t make heads or tails of that.

Theon let out an annoyed huff and repeated himself. “The. Hearts. Are failing. And the world. Is going. To. End. If. I don’t. Find the. Ninth. Heir.” He looked around the room, as if he would find who was he looking for hiding in a corner. “You don’t know where I would find them, do you? The Day Princess, the Night Prince, that sort of thing? It’s…rather pressing.”

Jon shook his head. “I thought they fixed the hearts.”

Theon started pacing the room. Not a nervous pacing, but an exploratory pacing. Jon did not appreciate the way this stranger, this intruder, studied his belongings. He looked to his chest. He would make a dash for it when Theon’s back was turned.

“What year is it?”

Jon looked up, startled at the unexpected question. “What?”

“To you? What year do you think it is?” Theon made sure to enunciate, at the same time speaking in an overly exaggerated manner, as if Jon were an idiot.

Jon bristled. “871.”

Theon smirked. “You’ve been asleep for a long time. It’s 1862.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “What? That—that can’t be true. That’s a lie.”

Theon quirked his head towards the window. “Have a look for yourself.”

Jon staggered out of bed. Part of his mind was yelling at him not to turn his back on this man, but the other half had to know. He ran to the window and peered out over what was left of his family’s island. When he’d closed his eyes, the castle had been connected to the main landmass by a bridge, one of the Marvels of the World. The bridge was gone. As was the landmass. The castle grounds were covered with vines and growth that hadn’t been there last night.

Last night. It hadn’t been last night, had it?

A strange vessel the likes of which he’d never seen sat docked at the end of the bridge. Its dome-shaped sail held a hull larger than anything the Dragon Islands could boast from their navy or royal family’s crafts. Possible, it was the work of magic from far off lands, something he had never seen or heard of before, but an itching realization was making its way down his spine.

Theon Greyjoy, with his strange clothes, strange language, and strange vessel…

He turned back to the man. “I have…been asleep for a thousand years?”

“Appears that way, doesn’t it?”

Jon shook his head in denial. That couldn’t be. Dany said she was just going to protect him until the war was over. She said she would come back for him. She’d promised that…a thousand years ago.

She hadn’t come back.

She had either lied or…she had died before she could return.

He slumped against the windowsill. He was surprised to find strong arms grabbing him and lifting him up. He didn’t have the wherewithal to shake the strange man off. Everything…everything was gone.

“Whoa, whoa, are you okay?”

“Okay?” Jon repeated numbly.

“Okay,” Theon repeated back. “Alright. Are you alright?”

“Oh.” Jon stared at the floor. “Yes, I suppose.”

He hauled Jon back to his feet and gave him a soft slap on the face, as if trying to bring him out of a daze. “Look, I know it must be a shock to you, but I need you to answer my questions. It’s important. Really important.” His eyes were earnest as they bored into Jon’s. “You said ‘they fixed the hearts.’” He tried his best to imitate Jon’s inflection, but the accent was still off. “How?”

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know. It didn’t concern me.”

“Who did it concern? Who would know?”

Again, Jon shrugged. “My father. But he’s…”

“Dead, right.” Theon let out a long breath. “Long dead.” He looked out the window. “Don’t suppose there are any other sleeping guys in this castle?”

Jon wasn’t sure what “guys” were and just gave Theon a blank look.

“Okay.” Theon clapped his hands together. “I guess that means you’re the best I’ve got. You’re coming back with me to the Citadel.”

The Citadel? What was that? _Where_ was that? Jon shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t leave. Wh-what if Dany comes back? What if I’m not here when she comes back? She promised she’d come back for me. I’ve got to be here.”

Theon stared at him as if he were stupid. “Mate, nobody’s come for you for a thousand years. If she were coming back, she’d have been here by now, don’t you think?”

Jon pushed him back, shaking his head. “I can’t leave.”

Theon snarled. “Yeah, well, I’m not giving you a choice.” He pushed up his sleeves and advanced.

Jon wasn’t going to go without a fight. He leapt over the bead and hit the floor on the other side rolling. He scrambled for the chest, fumbling with the latch as he heard Theon coming after him—his boots sounded like horse’s hooves on cobblestones. Jon reached in; his hand found the hilt of his sword.

“What’re y—?”

Jon jumped as a hand on his shoulder wrenched him back. He swung out with his sword and was rewarded with a sharp, “Fuck!” He spun around to see Theon gripping his hand and the splotches of blood on the wooden floor and the blade of his sword.

“Ah…” Jon held out his free hand, as if offering aid. He hadn’t meant to hurt Theon, not unless he got violent in his attempt to take him from the castle. “Do you—?”

“Y’li’l brat.”

Jon took a step back as the blood dripping down Theon’s arm began to flow back up, against gravity. It pulled itself into one mass and took the form of a knife, still the same deep, dark red, but with a metallic glint to it as well. Ah, Jon should have figured he had the Greyjoy Bloodline; at least that hadn’t changed after a thousand years.

“I don’t want to do this the hard way,” Theon said, taking care to enunciate his words so that Jon would understand. “But you’re coming with me. Alive.”

Jon hardened his face and gripped his sword tighter. “Then you’ll do it the hard way.”

Theon’s lip curled, and for a moment Jon wasn’t sure whether he was annoyed or…excited. But then he shot forward with a speed Jon hadn’t anticipated. He was able to dodge the first attack—helped largely because Theon wasn’t trying to kill him—but blocking a knife with a sword was…well, not really possible.

He found himself pressed up against the wall, his strong sword hand pinned and a knife at his throat. Theon sneered. “Looks like you’re a little rusty after a thousand years, pretty boy.”

Jon didn’t reply except to knee him in the groin.

The knife fell from his hand and dissolved into a puddle of blood. Theon also fell with a yelp and clutched himself.

Jon went for his sword while Theon recovered.

“You…you kicked me in the balls,” Theon cried, incredulously. He seemed more offended by that then the fact that Jon had leveled his sword point at his face. “Bloody hell, man, I would expect that sort of dirty fighting from a woman.”

“Count yourself lucky that you get to keep your balls,” Jon said, dead serious. “I want you out of my castle.”

Theon struggled to his feet. Jon kept the tip of his sword level with his face. He was still bleeding, after all, which meant he wasn’t unarmed.

“I can’t leave empty handed,” Theon said, still wincing.

“You can and you will.”

“You don’t under—”

The sound of an explosion ripped through the air. Both Jon and Theon turned to the window. From this vantage point, Jon could see a great gout of smoke rising from the strange vessel docked at the bridge. He could just make out the sounds of men screaming over the ringing in his ears.

“Shit!” Theon ran—hobbled—to the window and leaned out.

“What? What is it?”

“It’s those fucking pirates. They’re back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Why Do They Talk Like That?**
> 
> I realized when I mentioned the historical records during the Culling that I would have to deal with the issue of language, specifically how both written and spoken language changes over time. The written language of this world has changed enough over a thousand years that the historical records are no longer legible to laymen; no doubt the spoken tongue has also undergone a dramatic shift, similar to that of Old English to Middle English to Modern English. Consider Jon’s confusion about Theon’s language as akin to Shakespeare trying to communicate with a Modern English speaker.
> 
> The greatest obstacle would be the Great Vowel Shift. Basically, somewhere between 1300 and 1600, all of the vowels in the English language just…started being pronounced differently (which is why the letter i sounds like “eye” in English and “ee” in every other Romance language). Here are some examples:
> 
> [Old English spoken](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvgYLAKpU5g)  
> [Middle English spoken](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GihrWuysnrc) (Notice how every. single. vowel is pronounced. To Jon's ear, Theon would be dropping syllables all over the place.)
> 
> Jon and Theon will get used to each other’s “accents” quickly and dialogue will be rendered as “normal” again in short order. 
> 
> If this subject interests you, here are some further resources.
> 
> [Shakespeare's English](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WeW1eV7Oc5A)   
>  [The Great Vowel Shift](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Vowel_Shift)


	18. Up in the Air

THEON

 

Those fucking pirates were back!

Theon hadn’t for one second believed that ugly ox when he’d said they were merchants, but he hadn’t expected them to be this persistent. They’d disappeared off the map for two days, and Theon had thought them gone for good. Surely they couldn’t think there was anything valuable enough on the piece of shit vessel he’d hired to track them for _two days_. That sort of cost-reward risk just wasn’t in line for any pirates with half a brain. So they were either just that stupid—a real possibility—or the Citadel had sent them.

In that case, why were they firing on Theon’s ship?

No, it didn’t matter. Whoever had sent them, whatever they wanted, they weren’t going to stop Theon returning with his discovery.

He turned to the man who’d introduced himself as Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Odd young man. Fuckable, certainly, even if he was dressed like a cloistered holy man, but Gods, he spoke like an idiot. He was still holding his sword, but had dropped his defensive stance, distracted by the attack occurring outside the window. Good. Theon was done with his shit and took advantage of the moment.

He delivered a swift punch to Jon’s face, which sent him reeling backwards and dropping his sword. No hesitation, he dropped down and followed up his attack by kicking his feet out from under him. Jon went down, and Theon went in, lifting him up by the collar of his shirt and hefting him over his shoulder.

Jon was no light maiden, and the loss of another blood knife certainly wasn’t helping. But when Jon regained his sensed—sometime as Theon was trying to open the bedroom door with such an awkward load on his back—he received a swift boot to the gut that almost doubled him over.

“Stop that!”

“Poot mee doowyn!”

Theon grunted and pointed out the window with his free hand. “See that?”

Obviously he had.

“They’re going to come up here. And when they find you, they’re either going to kidnap you—and trust me, they won’t be as nice as I am—or they’re going to straight up murder you. Either way, you’re better off with me, trust me.”

Jon was quiet a moment, and Theon was sure he’d gotten through to him. Until he got another kick in the chest.

“Ouch! Would you _stop_ that!”

“Ee’ll faight tham maiseylf.”

“You’ll fight them yourself?” Theon repeated, partly because he wasn’t sure he’d understood and partly because it was stupid enough to bear repeating. “With a sword? We’ve created new weapons since you’ve been asleep, you know. Guns. Rifles.”

“Ee beat yyou, deed Ee nowt?”

“First off, no, you did not ‘beat me.’ And second, I brought a knife to a sword fight. I’m a Greyjoy, and our ways are the old ways. The new ways…” He glanced out the window. “You know a bow and arrow, yeah?”

Jon stopped squirming.

“Owf cowrse.”

“Imagine that, but a hundred times easier to point and shoot. I should know. I’ve fired both.”

Jon was quiet. He was beginning to understand, then.

Theon huffed. The weight was becoming difficult. “Look,” he said slowly, because Jon seemed to understand him better when he spoke slowly and over-enunciated his words, “I don’t want you to die. That would be the worst thing right now. And if you stay here, you’ll probably die. Then that woman you’re waiting for…yeah, she’ll only find your corpse. Is that what you want?”

“No.” Jon’s voice was small, and petulant, like a child’s.

“Good, because it’s not what I want either. Now, are you going to come with me or am I going to have to drag you kicking and screaming?”

Jon drew in a deep breath. “Ee weel go.”

“Glad to hear it.” Theon dropped him. Jon smacked against the floorboards then rolled over and glared at him. Theon was too winded to care. And besides, he deserved it for that low blow he’d dealt earlier. “Get your sword. It won’t do much against a gun, but it’s better than nothing.”

Jon continued to glower at him but did as he was told. He grabbed his sword while Theon kicked open the door. The sound of voices and footsteps coming up the stairs stopped him from darting out. Instead he peered over the railing.

“Hello,” he called out.

The footsteps stopped.

“Theon Greyjoy?” a voice called up after him. “Is that you?”

“Depends. I wouldn’t be speaking to the ox-captain of that ‘merchant vessel’ by any chance, would I?”

The voice echoed up towards him with harsh, barking laughter. “I thought I recognized your womanish voice, Captain Greyjoy. Do you have the Day Princess up there with you?”

The Citadel _had_ sent him! Good to know. He felt vindicated, though he should have watched them more closely when they’d made themselves known. He just hadn’t expected the Citadel distrusted him so badly that they’d send actual cutthroats after him.

“No, there’s no princess up here.”

“You’re lying, Greyjoy.” The footsteps began again. “Tell you what: If you hand her over to me without a fuss, I’ll let you live.”

“You’re a generous man for a pirate.”

“Oh, I can be quite generous when the mood takes me.”

The ox-captain—what had he said his name was? Theon couldn’t remember and didn’t especially care—rounded a bend in the stairs, flanked by two men. They all appeared to be armed. The ox-captain had his neck craned upwards, and as soon as a line of sight was cleared between them, his eyes found Theon and locked on. If the intensity in that stare wasn’t enough to convince Theon of this man’s ill intention, the sharp-toothed grin certainly was.

Good thing Theon had no intention of entertaining his proposal.

“Are you in a mood to fuck yourself?” Theon asked. “Because that’s all I’m offering.”

The man’s grin widened and his right eye spasmed, giving him a truly maniacal look. “I was hoping you’d say something cheeky. I’m going to have my fun with you before I have my fun with the Day Princess.”

“Well, hurry up then. It feels like another thousand years have passed just listening to you flap your yap.” With that, Theon ducked back into the room and slammed the door behind him. “Shit.”

“Hwat?” Jon gave him a worried look. “Hwat ees eet?”

“The stairs are no longer an option.” With his back pressed against the door, he looked frantically around the room. “I don’t suppose you have a way to lock this?”

Jon stared at him a moment; clearly it was taking him some time to decipher what Theon had just said.

Theon sighed and ran for the bed. “Help me move this.”

Jon seemed to understand that just fine. Working together, they pulled the big four-poster bed away from the wall and shoved it up against the door. It wouldn’t stop them for long, but it would give Theon a moment to think.

He went to the window and stuck his head out. It was easily a five-story drop the ground. A jump from here would leave them blood smears on the stones below. Not ideal. He looked at the bed; no way there were enough sheets to make a rope long enough to work. His clenched his hand; the wound was still open, even if he wasn’t allowing it to bleed. Maybe he could make a grappling hook and lower them down that way?

_Perfect, if I want to die of blood loss before my feet touch the ground_.

He leveled his stare at Jon.

Jon stared back in confusion. “Hwat?”

“Can’t you…summon dragons or something? To get us out of here?”

Jon continued to look bewildered.

Okay, no help there.

There was a crash at the door. The bed shuddered but didn’t budge. A sound of muffled cursing from the other side. Followed by a, “Use yer axe, Grunt. Knock ‘er down.”

Looked like his moment to think was quickly coming to an end.

He held out his unwounded hand to Jon. “Hold on,” he ordered.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Hwy?” He took an uncertain step back. “Hwat are yyou plaining?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll decide on the way.”

“ _Own thee way_?”

Theon grabbed his hand and reeled him in. No time for this. He winced as he hopped up onto the windowsill—his balls were still sore, after all—pulling Jon with him. Bits of stone crumbled under his boots and fell to the ground below as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

He craned his neck upwards. Overhead, there were thick beams holding the sloping roof up. He could make a grappling hook to haul them up that distance. They could scrabble up onto the roof and then…and then what?

The door shuddered inwards with the sound of splintering wood. A metal axe head worked its way in. Another few blows like that and the pirates would be in, and then the two of them would be truly fucked.

Theon pulled Jon flush against him. “Hold on tight.”

“Hwat are yyou—?”

“Just do it!”

Jon wrapped his arms around Theon’s shoulders. He had a grip like a barnacle on the rock, nearly squeezing the air from Theon’s lungs.

“Okay,” Theon gasped. “On my count. One.”

The axe swung again, carving out a large section of the door.

“Two.”

A face peered through. The ox-captain.

“Th—”

Theon paused to swat a fly from his face. And was surprised when his hand hit something in midair. He focused on the thing dangling in front of his nose, and it took him a good second to realize it was the end of a rope. He followed it up with his eyes, all the way up to the railing of the airship and Sam’s frantic gesture for him to grab it.

“Captain Greyjoy!” Sam called down. “Hurry up. Grab hold.”

Jon still clutching him tightly, he did. He grabbed the rope and gave a nod upwards.

Sam turned and made some motion to someone he couldn’t see, presumably the wheelman. Theon could only hope the man was willing to make up for his earlier cowardice.

To his relief, the engine fired up, and the airship took off. The combined weight of both himself and Jon was a tremendous strain on his shoulder, but he held tight. Even formed a few tendrils of blood rope to reinforce his grip.

His boots left the windowsill, just as the ox-captain crawled his way through the hole in the door. The look of outrage on the man’s face was perhaps the funniest thing to come out of this entire trip. Theon winked and blew him a kiss before the scene dropped away beneath him and he was flying away into the blue sky above.


	19. Stomping Ground

SAM

 

Sam breathed in relief as Theon and the stranger were pulled over the railing and onto the deck of the ship—not just because he was glad to have them back onboard, but because his lungs and palms both burned from the exertion of pulling them up.

He wasn’t the only one out of breath. “Thanks, mate,” Theon gasped, leaning against the railing.

“No…no problem.” In truth, they were lucky he’d managed to convince the captain to bring the airship around instead of just leaving them behind when the pirates had shown up.

The machinery of the ship whirred as the boilers sent more steam to the engine. The airship took off, leaving the island and its crumbling castle behind. By the time they had all caught their breaths—Sam took the longest—the pirates and the castle had disappeared once again behind the warding barrier and the buffeting winds were carrying them away faster than they could move on their own. There was no guarantee the pirates wouldn’t regroup and give chase, but for now the danger was behind them.

Sam wiped the sweat from his brow, let out a long breath, and finally turned his attention to the stranger Theon had brought aboard. A young man with pale skin and dark hair. Sam supposed he might fit the description of the Night Prince from the fairy tales.

“This,” Theon said, “is Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen.” He leaned in closely and whispered, “He doesn’t speak so well. I think he might be a bit slow in the head.”

“Oh, well…” Sam thrust out a hand for the stranger. “Nice to meet you, Jon Targaryen. I’m Apprentice Sam.”

The stranger took his hand reluctantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in the rolling syllables of the Old Language.

Suddenly Theon’s comment made sense. Of course Jon would sound funny to them. He was speaking a thousand-year-old language. “That’s incredible,” Sam remarked. “Is he…are you…really…?”

“Apparently he’s been asleep a long time.”

Sam nearly choked in excitement. “It’s like speaking with someone from the past. Oh, how is my accent?” he asked, changing his sounds to match what he’d been taught in his language studies.

Jon blinked. “Not bad. Better than speaking with this one.” He cocked his head towards Theon.

Sam couldn’t have been happier receiving praise from the Grand High Alchemist Master himself. “I have so many questions. What was alchemy like a thousand years ago? Are the clothes you’re wearing now everyday wear or for more formal events? What sort of place was your island like—I mean, before it… What did happen to your island anyway?”

Theon clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “Now isn’t the best time.”

Sam looked at the two of them, really looked at them for the first time, and realized how exhausted they looked. Theon had a nasty gash on his hand, and Jon looked like…well, like he’d just woken up from a thousand-year sleep. His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes. He must be undergoing some serious culture shock at the moment.

“Y-yes, of course.” Sam coughed awkwardly. “Just one?” He held up a single finger. “Question, that is.”

Theon sighed.

“Wh-what are we doing now?”

Theon looked out over the bow. “We head back to the Citadel.”

“Right.” In retrospect, he supposed that was obvious.

Theon glanced over his shoulder at the stranger, then pulled Sam in close. Sam leaned up to hear his instructions, “I want him set up in nice quarters. See to it, will you?”

Sam nodded, though he wasn’t sure what sort of authority he held on the ship. Jon could have his quarters if worse came to worse.

He was about to see to his task, but Theon pulled him back again. “You seem to be able to speak his language. See if you can’t get more information out of him than I could.”

“I’ll…see,” Sam responded hesitantly.

“Just be sure to ask him questions that are relevant to the matter at hand.” He beckoned Jon over and then shoved him in Sam’s direction. “He’ll show you to your room.”

Jon’s eyebrows knitted together, so Sam repeated the word. Jon understood the second time and followed behind Sam without a fuss.

They wove their way between crew members working on the damaged side of the ship, where the pirates had struck. The hull was still smoking, but it seemed any fire had been put out. Good thing. If the pirates had hit the zeppelin, they’d be a flaming star about now, nose-diving straight into the Core. Jon’s head spun in every direction, a look of confused awe on his face.

“You were really asleep for a thousand years?”

“My aunt put me to sleep,” Jon said distractedly, “using some sort of magic. She said it would keep me safe and that she would come to wake me up when the fighting was over.”

“The fighting? You mean the Blood Wars?”

“I don’t know. Is that what they call it now?”

“Lots of records from that time were destroyed, but there are still some accounts of a multi-national war between the Bloodlines. That’s why I’d be interested to know what the geopolitical landscape was like. Oh, but that’s getting off-track I suppose.”

They ducked into the stairway leading down into the crew’s quarters. It was a dark and damp little ship, not at all like the nice one he’d taken from Winterfell back to the Citadel. The hallways only allowed once person at a time, either coming or going, and Sam had found bottlenecking to be a bit of an issue on the journey.

Jon kept at least three paces behind, and Sam had to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure he was still there. _Think of something to ask him_ , he admonished himself. _Something relevant, like Theon said_.

“Um…so…the war you mentioned…did it have anything to do with the hearts? Not working, I mean.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “Your friend mentioned something about the hearts failing again. I’m sorry I can’t help. Father told me he fixed the problem. He didn’t tell me how.”

Sam felt something like a lump gather in his throat. He’d been the one to convince everyone that the Ninth Heir was the solution to their problems. He’d been the one to go behind the alchemists’ backs and find the lost island in hopes that whatever they found there would provide an alternative to a mass blood sacrifice. If this entire journey turned out to have been for nothing…

 He shook his head. Here he was, standing next to a man who had actually lived a thousand years ago. That wasn’t nothing.

The records. Of course. The alchemists at the Citadel were able to read them because they had studied the language, but in that case, it was still only a best guess. But Jon…

“Can you read?”

Jon frowned. “Of course,” he said, sounding offended.

He could read the records, tell them if Master Baelish’s interpretation was correct or not. Perhaps he could give them insight into the sketchier parts of the translation. The lump in Sam’s throat shrank just a bit, and his heart swelled with hopeful anticipation as he showed Jon into his room.

It wasn’t much larger than a closet, with a hammock and Sam’s luggage stacked in the corner. There were no windows, but Sam found he didn’t really mind all that much. It wasn’t so different from the dormitories at the Citadel. Still, Jon looked highly unimpressed.

“I know it’s a bit small,” Sam said, “but it’s only for a few—where are you going?”

He hurried to follow Jon’s confident stride back out into the hallway. The man was on a mission. He passed several doors before coming to Theon’s quarters and pushing the half-open door in. Theon’s room was twice as big as Sam’s, which still didn’t make it the size of a normal room but at least big enough for a person to stretch their arms out to their full length. It also had a porthole and a chest of drawers and a small wash basin. Jon looked around, hands on his hips, and gave a nod of approval.

“This will do.”

“Oh, but—”

“This is much more befitting someone of my station, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but—”

“Tell me…” Jon quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh, Sam,” Sam offered.

“Tell me, Sam, you were trying to give me your room, weren’t you?”

Sam looked at the floor. “Well, yes, but—”

“If I took your room, where would you sleep?”

“Well…with the rest of the crew, I suppose. It’s really not—”

“Tell your friend that I was displeased with the size of the room. I am royalty, after all, and I deserve better accommodations.” He jumped up and made himself comfortable in Theon’s hammock, swinging it back and forth experimentally. The ropes squeaked against the metal studs in the wall. “If he has any problems with that, he can address me himself.”

Sam shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. “But…if you take Theon’s quarters…where will he sleep?”

“With the crew, like you said,” Jon answered, leaning back into the hammock and tucking his hands under his head. “Or perhaps he can sleep on the floor.”


	20. Head in the Clouds

ROBB

 

It was a lesser Culling, of sorts. The Vassals of the Northern Islands gathered at the Winterfell, with Ned Stark presiding over them like the Grand High Alchemist Master. Robb sat to his right, Catelyn to his left, and Sansa to the left of her. Ned delivered the news of the Culling and its inconclusive results. The Vassals reacted with concern. There was much back and forth, questions asked, concerns raised.

Robb sat and stared straight ahead. His father hadn’t said as such, but he supposed he wasn’t supposed to speak. Not after last time. Ned might even have forgotten their heated exchanged aboard the airship for all he had acknowledged it since their return—he had not seemed to mention it to Catelyn, and he certainly hadn’t brought it up around Robb. Likely he wanted to forget.

So Robb didn’t speak. Instead, he clutched the truth orb Theon had given him for his birthday. For the first time since that day, it had glowed red. When the Vassals entered the meeting room. Which could only mean one thing: Someone here wanted to harm him or his family. Perhaps more than one someone. It was impossible to tell with so many people gathered.

The worried conversation of the room gradually gave way as Robb’s mind wandered, as it so often had the last few days, to Theon. Where he was, if he was safe, if he had found the lost island and the Ninth Heir. He had no way of knowing, of course, and not even the security of mind that Jory was with him, keeping him out of trouble.

Perhaps Sam would fill that role now, though Robb couldn’t summon too much confidence. Theon had a way of manipulating people. He’d been on the receiving end of it more than once.

Though, if he were being perfectly honest, Theon had had him wrapped around his fingers from day one.

The Bonding ceremony had been quick. Robb had felt the other boy’s hand trembling in his own unsteady hand as the blood from their twin cuts mingled. There was a sensation like an electric shock, but not wholly unpleasant. They drew back from each other. The witnesses tensed, waiting to see what Theon would do, especially since he had an open wound. Theon didn’t do anything though, just stared at his hand as big tears fell down his cheeks.

Robb felt his heart clench. “Don’t cry,” he said. His first unthinking command.

And Theon had.

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

Theon hadn’t exactly _smiled_ , but he’d nodded. He’d understood.

They spent most of the first few days together—they took their meals together and a pallet was even brought into to Robb’s room for Theon to sleep on. As a child, Robb had always assumed they needed to be close for the Bond to set in, but later he supposed nobody trusted the Greyjoy child to be out and about without his handler, the boy who held his leash. Looking back, the thought churned his stomach, how frightened Theon must have been back then, how much he must have resented him, more jailer than savior.

Made worse that Robb gave out careless orders: wait, look, watch this. Then the conversation with his father, in the presence of Winterfell’s heart. He hadn’t realized. He’d been horrorstruck, compelled to apologize to Theon and make up for it.

He saw Theon again later that night, after his father’s talk. When they weren’t together, Theon was kept in the room under lock and key. Robb had the guard unlock the door and came in to see the lights had not been turned on, even though it was reasonably dark. He found the silhouette of Theon in his nightshirt leaning against the windowsill, staring up at the first stars appearing in the night sky overhead. Robb turned on the lights, and when Theon turned in surprise, he had tear tracks on his cheeks again.

Robb wanted to say something, but he was frightened it might come out as an order. Instead, he considered his words carefully as he crossed the room. Theon looked like he wanted to bolt, but he didn’t, doubtless fearing some punishment. Robb still hadn’t decided what to say by the time he reached him, so instead he brought his hand up and wiped the older boy’s cheek with the back of his hand, brushing away the tears.

“I don’t want you to cry,” he said softly.

Theon sniffled.

“That…that wasn’t an order,” Robb hurried to elaborate. “I just don’t want you to be sad.” When he looked up into the boy’s bloodshot face, he felt foolish all over again. “You miss your home.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll never see it again anyway.” Theon turned back to the window, a hardened scowl on his face. “I’m stuck here for the rest of my life, doing whatever you tell me to do.”

Guilt flooded through Robb, and he dropped his gaze. He’d only been trying to keep Theon from being killed, but in the end he’d just made everything worse.

“I…” He paused to think about what he was going to say. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” No, that wasn’t quite right. “I’m not going to give you any orders. Ever.”

Theon gave him a skeptical look.

“No, it’s true. And to prove it…I want _you_ to give me an order.”

“What? Right now?”

Robb nodded furiously.

Theon looked around, as if expecting a trick.

“Any order you give me,” Robb said, “I’ll do it.”

Theon stepped back from the window and folded his arms across his chest. “Fine then. Jump.”

Robb jumped, bringing his knees up as high as he could lift them and then stomping his feet back on the floor.

Theon regarded him with hooded eyes, unimpressed by convinced. “Okay. Now…do a handstand.”

Robb took a few steps back so that he had room to get on his hands and feet. Then, he tried to leverage himself up by kicking off the ground. It didn’t work out well, as he ended up falling back down. He tried again, and again, putting more force into it each time, until one attempt overshot and he swung up and over and back onto the floor, landing on his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

Theon had broken into a fit of giggling. Robb scowled at him, until he realized he hadn’t seen the boy smile up until now. So instead he laughed it off as well. Picked himself off the floor and headed to the nearest bit of empty wall. And prepared to repeat the handstand maneuver with his hands and head propped against the wall.

He stopped when Theon’s laughing stopped. “What are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“You gave me an order,” Robb explained. “I have to do it.”

He felt a hand on his leg and looked over his shoulder to see Theon trying to get him back on his feet. “Don’t hurt yourself.” He frowned slightly. “That’s an order.”

Robb got up and dusted off his knees.

“I don’t want to get in trouble because _you_ broke your neck trying to prove some dumb point.”

“I wasn’t going to break my neck,” Robb insisted. “And it’s not a dumb point. I’m trying to show you that it’s not going to be me just giving you orders all the time.” He held up his hand to show the healing cut on his palm. “See this? It means we’re connected. And so long as we’re connected, we’re equals.”

Theon eyed him warily. “There’s no way we can ever be equals.”

“We can be if I make an order of it.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Robb practically panting in frustration, waiting for Theon to react. Do something other than stare at him like that.

And finally he did.

He shook his head and chuckled. And that was the second time Robb saw him smile.

“You’re a weird kid.”

Robb smiled back, even though he wasn’t sure if Theon was teasing him or not. “I mean it, you know. I’m not going to give you orders.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell yourself that enough times and it might eventually come true.” Theon waved his hand dismissively, but his earlier melancholy seemed to have burned off. He sighed, an exhausted sort of sight this time, and sank heavily onto the pallet they’d brought in especially for him.

“Is that comfortable?” Robb asked.

Theon bounced up and down at the pallet, considering it. “Comfortable enough. I don’t do a lot of sleeping on it anyway.”

Robb frowned at that. “You need to sleep on my bed tonight.”

That dubious look returned to Theon’s face. “What?”

“My bed’s much more comfortable. You’ll sleep better.”

“It’s not a matter of the bed being comfortable.”

“I know that. I’m saying, you might sleep better…next to someone.”

“Next to you?”

“Next to me.”

“Is that an order?”

“Of course not.” Robb picked at the scab on his palm. “I just...want you to be comfortable.”

An interminable moment passed where they stared at each other. Robb’s heart beat in his throat.

Finally, without saying a word, Theon got up from his pallet and crossed over to Robb’s bed. “Well,” he said, pulling back the covers, “hurry up and change into your nightshirt so I can go to bed. I can’t very well fall asleep with the lights on, can I?”

Now, sitting in a meeting with all the important people of the Northern Islands, Robb touched the palm of his hand—long since healed, without even a trace of a scar—and smiled at the thought of all the unwholesome ways he and Theon would come to share a bed in the following years. That first night, though, had been entirely innocent.

They’d started out on opposite ends of the bed, but come morning, Robb had woken up to find Theon’s face only a few inches from his own, peaceful in a deep sleep.

Robb looked up from his musing when he heard the squeaking of chairs being pushed back. The Vassals were rising from their seats. The meeting was adjourned. Robb didn’t know what the conclusion had been, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything anyone in this room could do anyway.

He did keep his eyes on the Vassals as they filed out of the room. When the truth orb stopped glowing red, he would know when his enemy had left the room.

However, more and more people trickled out, and still the orb continued to glow.

Robb felt at presence at his side and looked up to see Roose Bolton hovering next to Ned. The pale and gaunt-faced man had always unnerved Robb on the few occasions he’d had to interact with him. Most recently for his son’s funeral, but that had been at least a few years ago. There had never been any feud, that he knew of, between their two families. Could Bolton really mean him harm? And why?

Bolton leaned in close and whispered into Ned’s ear. Robb couldn’t make out the words, but Ned smiled sadly and said, “Thank you for your concern.”

“Lord Bolton.”

Everyone looked surprised when Sansa spoke up. She hadn’t said a word during the meeting either, though she’d seemed intensely focused on the proceedings.

“Was your son able to get my message back to you?”

Robb frowned. Sansa had been younger when Bolton’s son died, but surely she was aware of it.

Roose simply stood straight and inclined his head. “He did. I appreciate you treating with him. Ramsay can be a bit…” He considered. “Uncouth.”

Ramsay? Who was Ramsay? And when had Sansa ever spoken with him?

“Oh, he was a perfect gentleman,” Sansa said in a tone that wasn’t entirely convincing. “I’m glad to hear he made it home. I was a bit worried when I didn’t see him today.”

Roose made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Unfortunately, his ride through the rain gave him a bit of a cold. Serves the boy right. He’s recovering at the Dreadfort.” He turned to go, stopped, then added, “He sends his regards, Princess.”

For some reason he couldn’t place, Robb felt a distinct chill run up his spine. He wondered if Sansa felt it too.


	21. Go to Ground

THEON

 

Theon leaned against the doorframe, struggling to maintain an expression of mildly annoyed nonchalance. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

Jon’s head appeared from over the fold of the hammock, a smug look on his stupid face. “Coot?”

“Kee-yoot,” Theon enunciated, though he was pretty sure Jon was just yanking his chain.

“Cute,” Jon repeated. His odd way of speaking was becoming easier to understand the more Theon was around him. “This is what you call a child, yes? Or a woman?” He fluttered his long, dark lashes.

Theon put one hand on his hip and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Get your ass out of my hammock.”

“No, I do not think I will.” Jon tucked his hands behind his head and returned to his resting position. “I like this hammock.” He pronounced it _hummuck_. “You will simply have to sleep on the floor, knave.”

“Knave? Are you calling me a _peasant_?” Theon crossed the room and grabbed hold of the edge of the hammock, causing it to swing wildly. Jon yelped and clung to the fabric for dear life. “Listen here. You may be a prince, but so am I. And more importantly, I’m a prince of an island that _still exists_ , so I think that puts me above you, don’t you?”

Jon glowered up at him.

“What? Did I hit a nerve?” Theon bared his teeth. “Maybe you were a prince a thousand years ago, but now you’re just the prince of a floating piece of rock. Your island is gone. There’s no one alive who remembers your father’s name, let along your name, Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. You’re not even a footnote in history, and if it weren’t for me, you’d still be asleep in that castle waiting for a lady who’s never going to show up. So if you could show a little res—”

Something hit him in the face. After the initial stinging sensation, he realized it was Jon’s fist.

“Ow!” Theon checked his nose and found a rivulet of blood on his fingers. “What the fuck?”

“You are not allowed to speak of my family this way.”

“Fuck you!” Theon grabbed the side of the hammock and yanked. “Get your ass out of my bed now!”

Jon flailed as he pitched forward, arms windmilling crazily as he tried to find something to steady himself. Turned out that was Theon. He latched on, and instead of gaining his balance, the two of them crashed to the floor.

Theon’s head smacked against the wood. His vision spun. He tried to sit up to reorient himself, but Jon’s weight pressed down heavily on him. Snarling, he tried to buck the idiot off him. “You fucking fuck.”

“Apologize.” Hands grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and slammed his skull against the floor again. “Apologize for speaking ill of my family, you villain!”

Theon brought his knee up in Jon’s groin. Hey, turnabout was fair play. Jon rolled over with a pained, “Oof,” and Theon took the opportunity to reverse their positions, straddling Jon and pinning him to the floor by the shoulders.

“I’m not apologizing for shit,” he growled. “I only spoke the truth. Your family is gone and you’re never seeing them again. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

Jon made an attempt to fight back, but quickly ran out of steam. He allowed his head to lie against the floor while he glared up at Theon, nostrils flared.

“ _The better_ ,” Theon repeated. He was likewise winded. “Trust me. I know.”

They lay like that for a few moments, trying to regain their breaths. The anger left Jon’s face, replaced with exhaustion. His frame went limp.

Theon released his grip. “I’m sorry. About your family.” He sat up. “Everything I said is true. But I am sorry it happened.”

Jon stared numbly up at the ceiling.

He was in shock, Theon supposed. Perhaps he’d gone a tad overboard in knocking the prince down a few pegs.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” Theon tried to make his voice as good-natured as he could. “I know what you need, and it’s not lying around on the floor with your thoughts.”

Jon blinked at that and seemed to come back to himself. “What I need…?”

“What you need…” Theon stood and held out a hand. “Is a drink.”

“A drink?” Jon repeated, but took Theon’s hand.

Theon hauled him to his feet. “Yeah. And we’ve got some Gods awful stuff in the galley.” He cocked his head towards the door. “Come on.”

Jon’s eyes flickered to the hammock.

“We’ll deal with sleeping arrangements later.” Theon pulled on his hand.

Jon went along with all the resistance of a corpse. Walked like one too. Feet stumbling as if he wasn’t aware of them beneath him. Free arm swinging as Theon led him down the cramped hallway to the galley.

On a normal ship, there would be at least a kitchen worker of two cleaning up after the last meal and preparing for the next. As it was, the woman who doubled as the cook and the hull maintenance engineer was doubtlessly out seeing to hull maintenance after the pirates’ attack. The galley was empty. Dirty plates were stacked in the shallow sink. Pots of day-old stew simmered on a row of burners on the stove.

Jon seemed to come out of his stupor a bit, glancing around as if the rickety old kitchen were actually something to marvel at. Theon urged him on to the back room, where the kegs of ale and wine were stowed. He found some chipped mugs and opened a tap to fill them, then handed one to Jon.

“Here. Drink.”

Jon took the frothing mug and sniffed at it.

Theon took a long, strong pull from his to show him how it was done.

Jon sipped and made a face.

“You’ll get used to it,” Theon said, hopping up to sit on one of the empty barrels. He took another drink, wincing at the taste but enjoying the burn of it.

Jon took a tentative drink, made a face again, and leaned against the doorjamb. “I suppose I shall be ‘getting used’ to a number of things.”

“Don’t we all?” Theon swirled the ale around in the mug and contemplated it. “Look, I don’t think this woman…Denni…”

“Dany.”

“I don’t think Dany is still alive.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Theon held up a hand.

“But _if_ she is…if, for some reason, she’s still alive and didn’t come back for you because she was unable to…” He sighed. “I’ll help you find her. After you’ve helped us with the failing hearts…I’ll help you find someone who can track her down.”

Jon stared at him for a moment. “You would do that for me?” His brows scrunched up. “Why?”

Why indeed. He certainly didn’t owe Jon anything. And yes, he felt a bit guilty about his earlier bluntness, but not _that_ much. “Your family said they’d come back for you,” he answered, turning the mug around and around in his hands. “Family is important.”

They sat in silence for another moment or two. Jon took another drink and this time kept his face blank.

When he looked up, he said, “Your nose is bleeding.”

“Oh.” Theon had already forgotten. He’d unconsciously made it stop the second he’d realized he was bleeding. There was still a bit on his lip, though, and he guessed that was what Jon meant. “Want to see something neat?” He willed the blood on his lip back into his nose, back into the burst capillaries they had come from.

Jon stared at him.

“Robb always thought that was gross and made me do it around Sansa to see her run away screaming.” Theon grinned, before realizing Jon might get the wrong idea. “I mean…he didn’t _make_ me. We were just kids playing.”

“Who is Robb?”

Right, Jon didn’t even know who Robb was, much less that he was a Stark and that he had Bound Theon before either one of them had really understood what that meant. He was just so used to people knowing, questioning his relationship…

“He’s a friend.”

Jon didn’t ask any further questions.

“So…” Theon finished off his first drink and hopped down to refill his mug. “What is your Bloodline, anyway? Sam says you can summon dragons or some shit like that.”

Jon stared into his mug, which was not even half empty yet; Theon could still see the contents over the rim of the cup. “I have never used mine. But I have seen Father use his, and Dany use hers. Dany told me that when the blood of a Targaryen touches land, it summons the dragons of old in order to protect the wounded.”

“Do you think that’s how your father solved the failing heart problem before? By summoning dragons?”

Jon shook his head. “I do not know.”

Meaning it was possible. Theon thought about that as he stared at the contents of his mug. Climbing back to his spot on the barrel suddenly seemed like too much work. The ale may be awful, but he was beginning to feel its effects: lightheaded, dizziness, exhaustion. Though that might also have to do with all the blood he’d lost recently. And not a bit of red meat aboard. He sighed, took a big swig, and slid to the floor.

And watched Jon.

With his pretty pouting face and curly hair that would make any woman jealous. Theon was acutely aware that he hadn’t had a good tumble in over two weeks.

“You know, the key to getting over your family…”

Jon looked up as Theon stood.

“…is to keep your mind busy.”

“Keep my mind…busy?” He pronounced it _buzzy_.

“You know…distracted.” Theon braced his hand on the doorjamb, above Jon’s head so that he could lean in. “Don’t focus on what you’ve lost. You have to focus on what you have.”

Jon snorted and looked down into his drink. “And what do I have?”

His back went stiff as Theon tilted his chin up so they were eye-to-eye. There was no comprehension on the boy’s face. _Probably a virgin_ , Theon thought with a little thrill in his stomach. He leaned in, lips slightly parted…

“What are you doing?” Jon shoved him back. Not particularly hard, but Theon still struggled to keep from falling over anyway.

“I’m…distracting you?”

“Distracting me?” Jon scoffed. “With your perversions?’”

“What, did they look down on two men a thousand years ago?”

Jon shook his head. “The perversion is not with men, but with men such as _you_.”

 “Men such as me?” Theon retook his position bracing against the doorjamb, mostly because it was getting harder to stand on his own. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jon had a look of distaste on his face. “Ruffians. Scoundrels.”

“Oh, I’m a scoundrel, am I?” Theon smirked. “Tell me, Princess, have you ever _been_ with a scoundrel?”

“Of course not.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight.” Theon reached for his chin again. “Maybe you need a scoundrel to loosen you up.”

Jon pulled away and ducked through the doorframe. “And mayhaps I don’t. Mayhaps I don’t need a drunkard and a harlot instructing me on buzzying myself.” He set his half-empty mug on the galley counter and turned to go. “I think I shall make my sleeping quarters with the rest of the crew.”

Theon swirled the remnants of his own mug around, watching them slosh over the side. “Harlot,” he muttered. “That’s a new one.”


	22. Red Sky at Night

JON

 

He had an uninspired supper with the crew. No one spoke to him except for Sam, who seemed to understand that he was overwhelmed and kept conversation light. Jon answered questions about daily life in his own time, and Sam explained how things had changed. Theon never made an appearance.

He went to bed frustrated and found he couldn’t sleep. Which was unsurprising, since he’d _been_ asleep for a thousand years. But this was the unrest of a busy mind. All around him, the snores of the crew reminded him of how utterly alone he was in the midst of them all.

Every time he closed his eyes, images flashed through his mind. His mother, his father, his brothers and sisters. His friends from court. The servants, the soldiers, the guards. Everyone he’d ever known. They were all gone, long dead, their bones probably dust in their crypts. Assuming they had lived full lives.

The fighting…it had been far away when his father left. And a month had passed with no news when Dany came in to tell him what she had planned.

Dany.

She had to still be alive. For whatever reason—perhaps she had been trapped, or captured—she hadn’t been able to come back for him, but she would have used her powers to put herself into a dreamless sleep such as she had done to him. Perhaps she was still asleep, waiting for him to wake her.

Jon rolled over in his hammock. The foreign sensation of the ship rocking was not helping him fall asleep any sooner. He could hear the mechanical grinding from all around, like the living organs of a great beast.

This time was so strange to him. The people spoke differently, and though he was beginning to understand them a little better, it was still difficult. Theon in particular seemed to revel in confusing him. Every time he spoke, Jon had the distinct feeling he was being laughed at.

And yet, Theon was his strongest tether to this new world. He did not appreciate the man’s earlier presumptiveness, but there had been a brief moment, perhaps before the alcohol had set in, where Theon had shown a true vulnerability—a sadness that lurked under that cocky grin, something fragile and raw that Jon could recognize in himself. And in that brief moment, he’d felt genuine warmth towards the man.

Then, in a flash, it had vanished, and the scoundrel had returned.

Would he have allowed Theon to kiss him if he hadn’t been smirking, hovering over him like some predator, as if Jon were beneath him? Perhaps. He’d never put much thought into men—such inclinations were for the common people, who didn’t need to worry about passing on a noble bloodline—but he had eyes to see. Theon was attractive. Handsome, in a roguish sort of way. Perhaps indulging in more… _common_ interests would distract him, keep his mind off everything he had lost.

He dismissed the thought at quickly as it came.

He wished he could dismiss his other thoughts so easily.

The snoring, the swaying of the ship, the metal churning in the walls…it all coalesced into a symphony specifically meant to keep him from sleep. If he stayed here a minute longer, he was going to go insane.

So he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the hammock, and leveraged himself to the floor. The hammock squeaked; the floorboards squeaked; nobody stirred. His bare feet carried him numbly to the stairs, where the door was cracked open enough to let a sliver of moonlight through. He hugged Sam’s oversized nightgown around him to ward off the chill as he stepped out onto the deck.

There was not a cloud in the sky, and overhead, the stars shone as starkly clear as spatters of ink on blank white parchment. It almost burned his eyes. He blinked against it. The main sail—Sam called it a zeppelin—blocked out most of the overhead view, but the bow seemed open enough. Jon made his way over, only to find someone else had beat him there.

By now he was familiar with the shape of Theon’s foppish coat, his messy hair rustling in the night breeze as he stared off into the distance, leaning heavily on the bow’s railing. He didn’t seem to notice he wasn’t alone; Jon could sneak back below deck.

And then what? Try in vain to sleep?

He approached.

He was barely five paces away when Theon suddenly slumped forward.

Jon didn’t stop to think—Was he drunk? Was he trying to throw himself over the railing?—he moved in a flash. He grabbed the collar of Theon’s fancy coat and yanked. Perhaps a bit too hard. Theon spun around and crashed into him, nearly sending them both to the floor for the second time that day. He was like pudding in Jon’s arms, limp.

“Are you okay?” Jon asked, using the strange word Theon had taught him earlier.

Theon just blinked.

Jon slapped his face to get him to respond. “Are you drunk?” How much of that foul-tasting alcohol had he had after Jon left? He never should have left him alone down there.

Theon sputtered and swatted his hand away. “No.”

“Then it was your intent to fall?”

“That wasn’t a fall. It…” Theon pulled out of Jon’s supporting grip and put a hand to his head. “I’m just dealing with a touch of blood loss.”

“Because of your Bloodline?”

“I lost another blood blade because _you_ kneed me in the nuts.”

“The…nuts?”

“The balls.”

“Oh.” Against his will, Jon’s eyes flickered to Theon’s crotch. He supposed he did remember doing that during their fight in the tower. But only because… “You were trying to murder me.”

“I wasn’t trying to murder you. I told you, I have a vested interest in keeping you alive.”

“And how was I to know that?”

 “Maybe if you hadn’t been swinging your sword around all willy-nilly, I would have been able to explain.”

The more wound up Theon got, the faster he spoke, and Jon wasn’t sure he understood. “Willy-nilly?” he asked.

Theon stood up straight and breathed in. “Willy. Nilly.”

No explanation.

“You speak oddly,” Jon admitted. “I am sorry for…kneeing you in ‘the nuts’.”

Theon’s breath came out of him in a choking laugh. When he regained himself, he said, “And I’m sorry if I offended you…overly much…when I made a pass at you earlier?”

“Made a pass?”

“Attempted to…” Theon windmilled his hand, searching for a word. “Court you?”

“Ah.” Jon nodded. “You _were_ rather presumptuous.”

“I apologize for being presumptuous,” Theon said in an overly dramatic fashion, and Jon had the sense he was mocking his way of speaking. “I endeavor to be a gentleman and not make such advances again.” Theon made an attempt at—what Jon assumed was meant to be—a courtly bow, and nearly toppled over in the process. Jon hurried to steady him, feeling the man buckle in his grip. Theon’s giggle was slightly unhinged as he leaned in and whispered, “Unless you beg me.”

“I shan’t.”

“We’ll see.”

“We’ll see _you_ to bed,” Jon amended.

Theon didn’t fight as Jon led them back to the cabin, following the path Sam had shown him along earlier that day. Theon leaned heavily on him, but seemed to find his own feet once they were in his quarters. He quickly stripped off his jacket and tossed it haphazardly to the floor. Jon bent to retrieve it, but Theon gave a firm, “Leave it.” He hopped up into the hammock, still in his day clothes, and regarded Jon with curious eyes. “You can stay here tonight, if you want.” He patted the spot next to him.

Jon eyed him skeptically.

Theon placed a hand on his heart. “I promise to be a gentleman.”

“You are not a man of honor.”

“What are you talking about? I saved your life, didn’t I? What’s more honorable than that?”

Jon sighed. “I don’t—”

Theon’s hand shot out and grabbed Jon’s wrist. “Why were you above deck at this time of night?”

“I—”

“You couldn’t sleep, could you?” His eyes were soft, the same softness from before. “You’re thinking about them…everyone you’ll never see again.”

Slowly, Jon nodded.

“Don’t be alone.” Theon let go of his wrist. Jon could still feel where his fingers had been. “That’s my advice.”

Jon thought for a moment. Then wordlessly climbed into the hammock.

It was an awkward thing. The fabric dipped beneath his weight, and they knocked their heads together trying to get comfortable. Finally, they managed something half-decent, lying feet to head so their faces would not be forced together. This also allowed more open space. Jon settled in, resting his hands on his stomach and staring up at the ceiling.

“I know what it’s like,” Theon’s voice came from the other end of the hammock. “To find yourself in a new place, with people you don’t know. I know what that’s like.”

Jon didn’t reply.

“It will get easier.”

Jon wanted to snap at him for such an empty platitude, but something in Theon’s voice—the vulnerability resurfaced—stayed his anger. As Theon rolled over to go to sleep, Jon mused that perhaps Theon _did_ know, more than anyone else in this strange place. Perhaps they were two lonely souls adrift, tethered to each other.

After a time, Theon’s breathing evened out. Jon wasn’t sure how much later, but eventually he joined him in sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: a short epilogue to end Part II.


	23. Red Sky at Night

ROOSE

 

The lights came back just as the sun sent slanted rays through Roose’s parlor. They were on and off in equal measure these days. That far-off thing Roose had felt in his bones…it was moving closer.

He was up early, unable to sleep. Roose knew his reputation as a quiet man—had in fact cultivated it—but his mind was anything but.

Eddard Stark’s meeting had revealed some troubling problems indeed. For decades now, Roose had been sowing the seeds to insinuate his House back into the Stark Bloodline, and now that his garden was close to bearing fruit, it looked as though he would be left ruling over a dead kingdom.

Not that his garden _was_ going to bear fruit, mind. Ramsay had failed to seduce the eldest Stark girl, or at least win her trust so that Roose could convince Eddard Stark that their children would make a good match for each other. Domeric had been a prime candidate before his death, after all. No, now Ramsay was gallivanting off after some “Day Princess” that Roose was certain didn’t exist. Eddard Stark had not seemed keen on the bitch’s existence.

Roose half hoped Ramsay would simply never return. It might simplify his plans to place himself as Sansa’s suitor, though he would need to dispose of Walda first and the death of another Bolton wife would no doubt be met with suspicion.

He looked up as the lights flickered back to life. His head jerked as the communication orb in the study’s corner suddenly came to life with a new message. He stood and went to it, passing his hand over the smooth surface to bring the message up.

From Ramsay.

That was surprising. Airships weren’t usually able to communicate, as the portable orbs had trouble locking on when a signal was moving. Ramsay must have found somewhere stationary to send his message.

The message read:

_The Day Princess ran from me, but no worries. I’m closing in._

END PART II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you for Part III, coming...eventually.


	24. PART III: SUN AND MOON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is going up much faster than I anticipated. Unfortunately, for the New Year I'm hitting the ground running as far as work goes, so I'm posting what I have, with no idea when I'll get around to writing Part IV, let alone posting it. In the meantime, enjoy Part III.

RISE WITH THE SUN

* * *

THEON

 

Theon woke up to something poking him in the backside. Persistently and at an odd angle.

He rolled over to tell Robb to control himself, but abruptly remembered Robb wasn’t onboard. Then he smirked, remembering who _was_ in bed with him.

This was a golden opportunity. He could wiggle his ass against Jon’s erection until the boy woke up and realized what had happened in the night, but that seemed too pedestrian. Instead, Theon bolted upright and shrieked, “Pervert!”

Jon startled so badly he fell out of bed, landing with a _clunk_ on the floor. He looked around in a panic.

Theon peered at him from over the side of the hammock, an expression of mock horror on his face. “You were… _poking_ me.” He pointed awkwardly to the tenting of Jon’s nightshirt.

It took Jon a second to understand, but when he did, his whole face, from his ears to his neck, went bright red and he hurried to conceal himself with his hands.

“Here I am,” Theon began melodramatically, “letting you stay in my cabin, acting the perfect gentleman, and you…with your lewd habits…have you no shame?”

Jon scrambled away from him on all fours. “I…I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_?” Theon mimicked. “Sorry doesn’t restore my chastity, now, does it?”

“I…didn’t mean…” He looked down at himself in utter shame.

Theon decided to take pity on him. “I’m teasing,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the hammock. “My chastity’s long gone. Good riddance, I say. Nothing some stranger’s morning wood can do to damage it.”

“Morning…wood?”

“It’s perfectly normal,” Theon went on conversationally. “So normal that I can’t even flatter myself that you’re sporting it on my behalf.”

Jon just sort of folded his lips inwards, like he’d bitten into a sour lemon. Dark curls fell over his eyes, but Theon was sure he was still staring at the floor.

Theon slipped on his boots and then bent down for his coat. Jon flinched.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Theon said in a soft voice. “It’s alright. It doesn’t _mean_ anything, alright?”

“I know,” Jon mumbled in a way that said he didn’t.

“Geez, you make me feel guilty. You’re worse than Robb.”

Jon looked up shyly. “Your friend?”

Theon didn’t feel like talking about Robb. He probably should have kept that last thought to himself.

He stood, pulling his arms into the sleeves of his coat as he did so. “I’ll leave you to take care of that,” he said, though the lecherous part of his brain was urging him to stay and offer to “help.” He tamped down on that though. He’d already done enough damage. “Come and get some breakfast whenever you’re ready.”

“You won’t…”

Theon stopped at the doorway and looked back.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? To mock me?”

Theon pursed his lips. “Naw.”

“Naw?”

“Means ‘no.’ I’m not a complete asshole.”

“I know,” Jon murmured.

Theon raised an eyebrow at that.

“I prefer it when you are not a…’complete asshole’,” Jon elaborated. “When you are not the fool you pretend to be.”

Theon frowned. They’d known each other for less than a full day. Jon should not presume to know him. At all. It roiled his stomach, but at the same time, it wasn’t worth arguing over. “Come and get breakfast when you’re ready,” he repeated. “Or not. It doesn’t matter to me.”

He closed the door behind him.

 

***

 

“Theon…Captain Greyjoy…” Sam looked up shyly from his plate. They had been eating in silence for the last few minutes. “Can I ask you something? Something…personal?”

Oh, Gods. What now? “Go ahead, Sam.”

“Um…when you…that is to say, when you tried to…” Sam coughed and reached for his water. The glass was dirty and dusty, and Theon imagined it couldn’t be doing anything _good_ for his throat. “When you tried to...c-come onto me…on the way to the Citadel…”

Oh, _Gods_. What a way to begin the morning. Being reminded of an earlier failed seduction the night after _another_ one. “Maybe we should both do ourselves a favor and forget that ever happened.”

“R-right,” Sam agreed. “Yes, of course, it never happened, but…but I was just curious…” He looked around, conspicuously inconspicuous. “Wh-why did you…I mean, when you did, why did you…”

Theon eyed him with annoyance, warning him to hurry up with his question. Or simply not finish it if it was going to be _that_ stupid.

“Did you choose me because you thought I would be desperate?” Sam finally finished. “Because I’m so…” He looked down at himself.

Theon softened his gaze. “Naw,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, perhaps I did subconsciously, but that wasn’t why I tried to make a pass at you.”

“Then…why?”

Theon shrugged. “Thought it might be something novel to try, something interesting. An alchemist from the Citadel.”

“Appr—”

“ _Apprentice_ alchemist,” Theon finished, “I know. Why are you asking anyway?”

Sam stared down at his biscuits. “N-no reason. I was just curious.” He looked like he was going to say more, but didn’t. Awkward silence followed for a few beats. “Um…” He poked at his plate. “How was Jon last night?”

Theon stared at him. “What?” More shocked that it was _Sam_ asking such a rude question.

Sam’s face turned a bright shade of pink as he seemed to realize what he’d just said. “I-I mean…he wasn’t in his hammock this morning and I couldn’t find him anywhere else on the ship so I figured the two of you spent the night together. I-I mean in the same room! I mean, not that it’s any of my business if you two…” The deeper his dug himself into this hole, the pinker his face became. “I just wanted to know that he’s okay…after his first night.”

“He’s fine,” Theon growled, and didn’t understand why the conversation was annoying him so much. He actually _had_ tried to seduce Jon last night. What did he care if Sam thought he’d succeeded when he hadn’t? “And you’re right. It’s not any of your business.”

“Right, right,” Sam agreed, nodding like a schoolchild reciting his lessons. “Good. I’m glad Jon is fine. It’s got to be pretty rough on him, you know. Going to bed one night, waking up a thousand years in the future. No idea what happened in between.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “It would be interesting to ask him what alchemy was like in his time, get an idea of how far technology has advanced. He probably doesn’t even know what a gun is.”

“We’ve been lucky so far that he hasn’t had to encounter them,” Theon said, thinking of the pirates in the tower. He had little doubt that if they’d managed to bust the door down a fraction of a minute earlier, he and Jon would have had to deal with their guns. It worried him, because Jon hadn’t really understood him when he’d tried to explain the weapons’ power. He’d seemed to get the basic gist of it, but he wouldn’t truly _understand_ until he saw one in action.

Theon stood.

“Oh, are you leaving?” Sam asked.

“There’s something I need to do.”

“Oh…okay.”

Theon swung his leg over the bench they all shared at the long dining table, but before he could get his other leg over, Sam made a small squeaking sound.

“Oh…um…yes…I was supposed to tell you…that is, the captain asked me…I mean…you’re the captain, obviously, but the ship’s captain, and—”

He abruptly stopped, which was good because Theon felt a tic forming in his eye.

“He said we’re going to have to make a stop in Dorne to refuel,” Sam finished.

“What? We don’t have time for that.”

Sam shrugged. “The airship has to have fuel, otherwise it stops making steam and hot air and…I’m sure I don’t have to explain the laws of gravity to you.”

Theon glowered at him, half-impressed with his cheekiness. The fact that he was unequivocally correct may have had something to do with his sudden burst of confidence.

“It would also give me a chance,” Sam went on, “to send a message ahead to the Citadel. Apprise them of the situation.”

“Right.” Theon nodded. That was a sound enough idea as well.

“He…the captain…the other captain…he told me that if I saw you first, I was to tell you that, based on our current trajectory, we’ll be at the nearest port in a day or two if winds are favorable.”

“Right,” Theon repeated and stood. “Thank you for your report, Apprentice Sam.”

Sam watched him get up from his seat. “Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?”

Theon spared a glance at his plate, the salty biscuits smothered in gravy. “You’re welcome to it.”

He turned to go just as Jon entered the dining room, dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. When they reached port, Theon would take the opportunity to buy him a better wardrobe while the crew refueled and Sam sent his message. For now, he had other plans. He gently grasped Jon’s elbow as they passed in the hall. Jon went completely stiff, as if expecting Theon to mention his earlier…predicament.

“Meet me up on the top deck when you’re done with breakfast,” Theon said, which didn’t alleviate Jon’s suspicious and anxious expression. “I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself…circa 1862.”


	25. A Shot in the Dark

ROBB

 

Robb watched from the safety of the tree as Sansa aimed the gun and Cassel stepped in to correct her posture. “Just like that, Princess,” the old captain of the guard said, making sure she kept her aim away from the horses. “Keep your arms steady with your strength; don’t lock your elbows.”

Sansa’s arms trembled. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Cassel glanced over his shoulder, a telling look directed at Robb. Robb nodded.

“Of course you can, Princess,” Cassel beamed. “Now, focus on the target.” He pointed to the tree in the distance, its red bull’s-eye impossible to miss. Its trunk was pock-marked with bullets from when Robb himself had learned to shoot here, and Arya. Sansa had never shown any interest in learning, but Robb intended to put an end to that. Cassel had already agreed to move Bran and Rickon’s lessons up as well, and promised not to tell Catelyn.

Robb leaned against the tree where their horses were tied. As he watched Sansa struggle with her confidence in the weapon, he felt like he was looking into a mirror of the past, with Rodrik teaching him and Theon leaning against the tree, offering unhelpful comments.

Robb had been no marksmen, and he’d easily grown frustrated with his practice. Until the night he’d woken to Theon’s insistent shaking. By that time, Theon had long been moved to a room of his own, so it was surprise to see him. And fully dressed in his day clothes. “Get dressed,” he’d hissed. “Meet me in the servant’s entrance near the kitchen.”

“Wha—?” The words had no time to leave Robb’s lips before Theon had vanished.

With no idea what mischief Theon had planned now, Robb eagerly dressed in his simplest outfit and darted down the kitchen, where he found Theon waiting for him with a lighting orb. Theon took his hand and led him into a narrow passageway hidden in one of the many alcoves in the palace’s walls. The grounds were covered in dozens of hidden channels, but Robb hadn’t even been aware that this particular one existed. He wondered how Theon had managed to find it.

The passage had a steeply sloping walkway. Years of dankness and moss growth made keeping his footing difficult. The stones were wet and slimy as his hands brushed against them, bracing himself as Theon led him every downwards.

“Where are we going?”

Theon just put a finger to his lips.

They kept going downwards until Robb thought they would reach the Heart of Winterfell itself. But instead, the walkway gradually leveled out and opened up to reveal a long and low-ceilinged catacomb, aglow with several lighting orbs. It was clear from their placement on the ground that Theon had squirreled them away here; otherwise the room appeared to have been abandoned for quite a while.

Theon set the lighting orb in his hand on the floor and reached into his jacket. He wouldn’t acquire his black and gold coat for several years yet, but in his memory, Robb saw him wearing it, pulling a pistol from one of the inner pockets and handing it to him.

“What am I—?”

Theon pressed a finger to Robb’s lips. With his free hand, he snapped his fingers and the alchemy orbs turned to their most intense setting. Robb blinked against the new light, but when his eyes adjusted, he saw the target at the far end of the room—a barrel with a sloppily painted red bull’s-eye. He wondered how Theon had managed that one.

He felt Theon’s hand on his elbow and looked down to see him guiding the pistol towards the target. “Your problem is that when you aim, you try too hard,” he said, moving on to adjust Robb’s shoulders and even his feet. “Don’t overthink it.”

How could he not when Theon was…touching him? Like that?

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Relax,” Theon laughed. “Keep your eye on the target down there. That’s where you want your bullet to go. Visualize the straight line connecting you to it.”

Robb forced the tenseness out of his shoulders.

“That’s good.”

His stomach tingled at the praise. He wanted to hear it again.

He aimed, concentrating on the red dot in the middle of the bull’s-eye, and squeezed the trigger. A bit of red paint on the target’s outer rim chipped away as the bullet hit. Close, but not close enough. Robb sighed in defeat and allowed his arm to go limp.

“You’re thinking too much,” Theon said.

“You’ve always been better at hitting things at a distance,” Robb said.

“I hope you’re not implying it’s because I never think,” Theon laughed. “When you’re out hunting an animal or if you ever need to defend yourself—”

“I can use my Bloodline.”

“ _If you ever need to defend yourself_ ,” Theon repeated, “you won’t have time to think. You won’t have time to feel. So you’ve got to train yourself to do it, like breathing.”

Now Robb was thinking about breathing.

“Once you’ve got it, your arm will know what to do, where to point.” Theon forced Robb’s arm up again. “Try it again. Don’t think this time.”

Robb sighed and tried to follow Theon’s instructions. See the target. Aim for it. Don’t think.

He fired.

The bullet hit closer to the inside this time.

“Better,” Theon said, and Robb’s stomach burned with heat. Or maybe that wasn’t his stomach. “Now…” Theon’s face was inches away as he leaned into adjust the tension of Robb’s elbows. “The training is in aligning your arm with what your eyes see. And to do that we—”

Before he knew what he was doing, Robb was closing the distance between them.

Their lips brushed.

Theon pulled back.

“I…” Robb stammered, horrified at what he’d done. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”

“Your father would kill me.”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Your _mother_ would kill me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Would you stop apologizing?” Theon hissed. “It’s not fucking fair. When I’ve been trying so hard to keep my hands off you for the past few months and then you go and…” He shook his head.

Robb stared at him as his words sank in. “You…?”

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about. It’s been…very distracting.”

“Oh.” Robb let his pistol arm go limp. “I’ve been…me too…”

“Gods.” Theon ran a hand through his hair.

“I…won’t tell Mother or Father if you won’t.”

“We should forget this ever happened.”

“It’s for the best,” Robb agreed. It was dangerous. Theon was his friend, more than his friend. Theon was his servant, Bound by the Stark Bloodline and unable to disobey any command Robb might give him. It would be messy, the two of them. It would be dangerous.

They stared at each other, lit by the glow of the alchemy orbs.

A second later, the pistol was falling from Robb’s nerveless fingers and they were on each other. Fingers gripping possessively on hair, lips smashing against each other. When they finally stopped to catch their breaths, Theon had Robb up against the wall, panting heavily.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered.

“You’re thinking too much,” Robb said back, wrapping his hands around the back of Theon’s head and guiding him in for another kiss. “Don’t think.”

Now, leaning against the tree while Cassel taught Sansa the lesson Theon had taught him years ago—well, hopefully not _that_ lesson—Robb ran his fingers along his lips, remembering their first kiss in the catacombs. Remembering how Catelyn had asked the next day if anyone else had heard something banging about downstairs last night, the snickering he’d shared with Theon at the breakfast table.

He never had become a marksman, but he’d become good enough to satisfy Cassel.  Of course, he’d learned primarily so that he could accompany his father on hunting trips. He wasn’t going to reveal why he suddenly insisted on Sansa learning to use a firearm.

She was no better than he’d been when he first started out, but they made some progress. She managed to shoot the tree on a few occasions. By then, the sun was high in the sky, and Cassel proclaimed that he had other duties to attend to. So they packed up and rode back into town.

The power was off when they arrived. Robb could tell from far off, the lack of smoke hanging over the buildings. Once inside the city’s walls, even more telling signs made themselves known: closed shops, people huddled around wood-burning fires, roads once safe to travel now abandoned for lack of streetlights. The weakening of the hearts was affecting the people, Robb noted as their horses’ hooves clipped along the cobbled streets. Perhaps more than even at the palace.

They made their way to the stables, and Robb had barely dismounted before a servant arrived and whispered into his ear, “Your father has an urgent message for you. He asks that you meet him in his study.”

Robb’s heart clenched. What now?

He hurried, not even bothering to take off his traveling cloak. He arrived at his father’s study, short of breath, to find Ned at his desk, writing away.

“Father?” Robb took a step forward, trying to tame his wind-swept hair with his hand. “You wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes.” Ned set down his pen. “I have just received news from the Reach.”

“The Reach?” The clenching of Robb’s heart turned to hope. “Is it Theon? Is he back? Was he successful?”

Ned turned in his seat, a smile on his face. Small, with just a twinge of sadness. “The Tyrells have made an offer of marriage. You and Margaery are to be wed.”


	26. Make Hay While the Sun Shines

JON

 

Jon wasn’t sure what he was going to find as he made his way to the upper deck. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d understood Theon—something about defending himself and circuses. And he still wasn’t sure that Theon wasn’t still laughing at him for this morning’s…indecency.

Because Jon also wasn’t sure he was ready to look Theon in the eye. Not when the other _knew_ what he’d been doing in his cabin. And not with _Jon_ himself knowing what images had crept in as he’d done it, no matter how hard he’d tried to keep them at bay. He may have finished to the thought of the two of them lying in the hammock as they had last night, Theon reaching over with a mischievous smile…

Jon would rather die than even contemplate what it meant.

Breakfast sat heavy in his stomach and the back of his throat. Whatever Theon had planned, Jon wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

A gentle breeze ghosted against his face as he emerged from the lower deck. The sky was mostly clear, with a few dark, gathering clouds in the distance. “It’ll rain later tonight,” Theon said, and Jon turned abruptly to see him leaning against the wall, twirling something in his hand.

It looked a bit like a dagger with a curved hilt, but the blade was a thin metal barrel. In total, it was perhaps the length of his forearm.

Theon stopped twirling it as Jon approached, swinging it casually up into his hand, his finger hooked into the metal loop at the hilt. “This,” he said, holding it out at eye level, “is a pistol.” So, this was the weapon he’d mentioned earlier, the thousand-fold bow and arrow. Jon followed his line of sight to the railing, where a row of glass bottles sat lined up. Firing practice, he expected.

What he did not expect was the noise. The thing cracked like a whip in Theon’s hand, and one of the bottles _exploded_. Jon ducked as a plume of smoke billowed from the barrel.

Theon laughed. “Now you understand.”

Jon stood, feeling ashamed at his reaction.

“Come here.” Theon crooked his finger and held the pistol, handle out.

Jon took his hesitantly, feeling the smooth ivory of the handle slide into his palm. It was heavy, much heavier than a knife. Theon took him by the shoulders and spun him around, and guided Jon’s hands to the proper place on the handle.

“Hold it like this,” he said, long fingers surprisingly gentle as they showed Jon’s where to go. “This is the trigger.”

Jon slipped his index finger into the loop and felt the flexible bit of metal on the inside. He tested it experimentally.

“Careful,” Theon whispered into his ear, and Jon was aware of just how close they were, pressed front to back. “I’ll need to set it up before it’s ready to fire another shot, but if it were ready to go, you’d be blasting a hole in the floor there.”

Jon let go of the mechanism.

“Here.” Theon brought his right hand up and pulled back on a lever that Jon hadn’t even realized _was_ a lever. “That’s called cocking.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Cocking,” Theon repeated with a chuckle. “Get your mind out of the gutter. It means getting the next bullet ready to fire.”

Jon wasn’t sure what a gutter or a bullet were, but he nodded.

“You’ve fired a bow and arrow before, right?”

“I have.”

“Good. Just like when you aim at a target with an arrow…” Theon guided Jon’s arms up so that the pistol was aimed at the row of glasses. “Just like that,” he repeated and stepped back. Without his support, the weapon felt heavy in Jon’s hands, and his arms trembled slightly. “Fire when you’ve got your target. Use your finger.”

Jon swallowed and put pressure on the bit in the metal loop. The pistol bucked back, buckling his arms. The crack was deafening and the smell of smoke filled the air. Coughing, he waved his hand.

Theon cackled madly. “Well, you didn’t hit a target,” he said, “but you didn’t do any damage either, so not bad for a first try.” He came up behind Jon again and had him raise the weapon once more. “It’s a bit more powerful than a bow, isn’t it? But the idea’s the same.” He “cocked” it again. “Eyes on where you’re firing. Breathe in.”

Jon filled his lungs, fell his back expand and press against Theon.

“Breathe out.”

He did.

“Fire.”

He squeezed the trigger. Ready this time, the pistol’s backlash was easier to control. Whatever projectile the weapon fired, it struck the side of one of the glass bottles, causing it to shatter in the instant.

“Very good. You’re a fast learner.” Theon’s breath against Jon’s ear caused a shiver to run down him. “You have three bullets left. See if you can focus your aim.” He stepped back again, this time completely away, and Jon was left feeling the chill breeze on his back. The shiver settled in the base of his spine, dangerously close to his groin.

“I feel like a child again,” he admitted as he raised the weapon once more.

“If you don’t learn the new ways, people will always treat you like a child,” Theon said.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Jon took in a deep breath, aimed the pistol, and breathed out. This time, the projectile hit closer to center. As the bottle shattered, he wondered what this weapon could do to a person.

“Keep working on aim,” Theon said, nodding his chin to the two remaining targets. “We’ll work on quick-drawing later.”

“Thank you.” Jon allowed the barrel of the weapon to drop and he looked back over his shoulder. “For teaching me.”

Theon—once more leaning against the cabin, arms crossed, one leg propped on the wall—blinked in surprise. “I want you to be able to defend yourself in the event of another attack.”

“Do you think there will be another attack?”

Theon looked upwards and scratched at his chin. “I don’t know, but I’d rather not be caught unaware again.” He shrugged. “I intend to stay with you until this whole mess is sorted out and the hearts are running properly again, but if, for whatever reason, you should find yourself alone and in need of a weapon…” He nodded to the pistol. “Keep that on you at all times.”

Jon nodded.

He was about to turn and fire the next round, but he paused when a strange look came over Theon’s face.

“Ah…” Theon was fiddling with his hands. “You said that your blood can summon a dragon…if you’re wounded.”

Jon nodded.

Theon stepped forward, slipping something off his finger. “I want you to keep this on you all the time too.”

Jon took the ring Theon handed him, studying the golden band and sizeable ruby.

“If you press on the jewel, it will release a needle,” Theon explained, showing him. “To prick you and draw blood. I use it to fight in an emergency, but I think it might be more appropriate for you. It’s more important that you survive.” Jon must have had a shocked expression on his face, because Theon quickly added, “I mean, it’s more important that you get away. I can always stay and fight.”

“But how will you—?”

Theon produced a knife from the folds of his coat. “I’ll use the old-fashioned method of drawing blood.”

Jon looked at the ring. “My Bloodline only works if the blood touches land. I can’t accept—”

“Keep it,” Theon said as Jon tried to hand it back. “It might come in handy yet.”

Jon nodded, realizing that the other man was offering him a present. It would be rude to turn it down, so he put it onto his ring finger. The weight was unfamiliar. He had never been one for jewelry, but he vowed he would wear it until Theon asked for it back.

And hoped he would never have need for it while he wore it.


	27. Trip the Light Fantastic

SAM

 

Sam paced up and down the corridor, trying to work up the courage to knock on Theon’s door. Trying and failing.

He’d been psyching himself up for the last five minutes or so. Eventually, he realized that if he couldn’t even ask Theon, there was no way he would be able to do what came next. So he took a deep breath, raised his fist to knock on the door, and…

His nerves fled him and he turned and hustled down the hall. And ran into Theon and Jon coming down the opposite way, from outside.

“Sam?” Jon asked with a genuine grin on his face, almost as if he were happy to see him. But that couldn’t be right. Nobody was ever _happy_ to see him. “Good afternoon.”

“Oh, I, uh…yes…” Sam shuffled his feet nervously and looked at the floor. “I, uh, actually…wanted to speak with Theon—Captain Greyjoy,” he quickly corrected.

Theon leaned against the wall, arms folded casually over his chest. “Yes?”

Sam cocked his head towards Jon, hoping one or the other of them would understand. He didn’t think he would be able to ask his question with the third man around. Jon was just so…well, it was easy to see why Theon would go after him, and not that Sam was necessarily jealous, but Jon’s presence was just another reminder of how _good_ Theon was, how he could get anyone he went after.

Theon finally seemed to notice his discomfort and nodded to Jon. “Why don’t you go back to the cabin?” he suggested, nodding towards the room. “Your hair’s a mess from being out in the wind.”

Jon’s hands flew to his hair, almost as if in a panic, and he hustled quickly into the captain’s quarters.

When the door was closed behind him, Theon turned back to Sam. “What is it?”

“I want to know…” Sam clenched his fists and lifted his head, but still couldn’t quite seem to make eye contact. “How do you get someone to notice you?”

Theon blinked, as if he hadn’t been expecting that question. He had probably already forgotten their conversation earlier this morning, Sam realized with a bit of hurt.

“Notice you?” He shifted his stance. “As in…?”

“How do you make a pass at someone? Successfully?”

Theon looked like he was trying to keep himself from laughing. “Why? Interested in someone?”

Sam looked at the floor.

“Someone on this ship?”

Sam continued to look at the floor.

Theon pushed off from the wall and came closer. “Is there a girl in the crew you really fancy, Sam?”

Shamefaced, he nodded. “The c-cook,” he said. “Gilly.” He looked up to gauge Theon’s reaction.

Theon scratched at his chin. “The cook,” he repeated. “I mean, I can’t say her cooking’s too good, but as for looks…” He gave an indifferent shrug. “She’s got a certain country girl charm, I suppose. Yeah, not too bad, Sam. Not too bad at all.”

Sam’s face burned, but despite the backhanded comment, he did feel a bit pleased.

“What I want to know,” he began, “is how you know if someone is interested in you.”

Theon cocked his head. “Why? Has she shown an interest?”

“I…don’t know,” Sam admitted. “I mean…she always gives me seconds, before I even ask. And this morning, before you got there, she was kind of…looking at me. I…I know I might be reading too much into it. I mean…look at me.”

Theon scoffed. “Well, the first thing you should know, if you want to woo this Gilly, is that talk like that will make her drier than a desert in Dorne.” He leaned in, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Women like confidence. Men like confidence too, but women especially. You’ve got to act like you’re worth something, worth her taking notice in.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, sure.” _Easier said than done_. “H…how do I make my intentions known?”

“Well…” Theon leaned in closer, putting more weight on Sam’s shoulder. “The key to a successful seduction is three-fold: close proximity, eye contact, and a good opening line.”

Sam nodded, more eagerly this time. Yes, that was all good stuff.

“Now, the most important thing to getting a woman to fuck you is—”

“Uh…” Sam twiddled his fingers. “I’m not so…I mean, yes, perhaps, _eventually_ , but I’m more interested in just…approaching her first.”

Theon stared at him like he was some poisonous insect.

“What are you discussing out here?”

They both turned to see Jon exiting the room, taming a few stray curls with his hands.

Sam made a quick nixing motion across his throat, but Theon called out to him, in an overly loud voice, “We’re trying to get Apprentice Sam in bed with a woman.”

“Not—I only want to _talk_ with her,” Sam argued.

“You want to court her?” Jon asked, coming to stand behind him. The two of them were now effectively hemming him in. “You could always ask her to dance.”

“Dance?” Theon scoffed. “Does it look like there are many galas on this ship, Jon?”

“I don’t know how to dance in any case,” Sam agreed with a shrug.

Now _Jon_ looked at him like he was a poisonous insect. “Dancing is a gentleman’s skill,” he said. His face lit up. “I will teach you.”

“Oh, I, um…” Sam tried to back away from him but found himself bumping into Theon. “I’m not sure. I’m not a very…I’m not well put together, you see. I’m all clumsy and—”

“Nonsense.” Jon waved him off. “Anyone can learn to dance. Here, come into the cabin and I will show you the basic steps of the waltz. It’s the least I can do after you’ve been so accommodating towards me.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at Theon, but the captain was snickering behind his hand; it was clear he would get no help there. With a sigh of defeat, he followed Jon into the captain’s quarters. To his mortification, Theon followed behind.

It was rather cramped with all three of them in there. Theon took a seat on his chest in the far corner, near the washbasin, and held the hammock out of the way, giving Jon and Sam an area to move around in.

“To ask a lady for a dance,” Jon began, “approach her, look her in the eye, and hold out your hand.” He held out his own hand in demonstration. “Wait for her to accept your invitation.”

“Oh.” Not knowing what to do, Sam took the proffered hand.

“A gentleman will kiss the back of the lady’s hand,” Jon went on.

Sam’s heart rate sped up. He could only imagine himself drooling all over Gilly’s hand, the disgust on her face as she pulled away from him. He was glad when Jon didn’t kiss his hand and instead pulled him in.

“Now, as you have done the inviting, you will take the leading position. Like this.” Jon brought the hand holding Sam’s up and put his free hand on Sam’s waist. Sam tried to follow suit, but Jon frowned. “No, now you…your hand goes here…” He guided Sam’s free hand to his shoulder, but stopped abruptly. “No, that’s the follower’s position. You’re the leader, but…” He drew his eyebrows together in concentration or concern or perhaps simply frustration.

From the corner, Theon stood. “Oh, for the love of— Don’t tell me you don’t know how to teach the leader’s position.” He dropped the hammock and pushed himself between Sam and Jon. “Go sit in the corner, Sam. I’ll be the follower. You watch Jon’s feet. That work?”

Sam nodded and hurried to Theon’s previous position, then belatedly realized he should hold the hammock back now. He sat and watched as Theon’s left hand went to Jon’s shoulder, and Jon’s right hand went to Theon’s waist. Their remaining hands joined together in a stance Sam remembered from the few balls he’d attended as a child.

“Watch my feet,” Jon said, “but remember that when you are leading, you must absolutely never look down at your own feet. Understand?”

Sam nodded.

Jon pushed with his left hand, and Theon allowed himself to be pushed back. Sam watched their feet—Jon stepping forward, Theon stepping back, then both to the side, then Jon back and Theon forward. They made a tight square and returned to their beginning position. It was so fluid, so natural…until they began a second turn.

Jon’s foot came down on Theon’s toes, and Theon’s elbow jerked in the wrong direction.

“I thought you said you knew the follower’s position,” Jon said in displeasure, obviously struggling to get them back on rhythm.

“I am. You’re adding an extra beat in there.”

“I am not. I’ve never had any complaints about my form from any of my partners.”

“Any of your _partners_?”

“ _Dance_ partners.”

“Well…you’re adding an extra beat.”

They broke apart.

“Um…” Sam tapped his toe. “Perhaps dancing has changed a bit in the last thousand years.” He didn’t know anything about dancing, but it seemed reasonable.

“It’s a simple waltz,” Jon said. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

“That’s too fast,” Theon said. “One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s how it’s done.”

Sam couldn’t tell the difference between their rhythms. “Perhaps some music would help?”

“Provided by you?” Theon said with a sneer. “Let me take the lead. I’ll show you how it’s done.” He brought his hand from Jon’s shoulder to his waist.

Jon blinked in surprise but quickly adjusted his position. “I don’t know the follower’s—”

“Just follow,” Theon said. “It’s easy.”

He pushed forward with his hand, the way Jon had a moment again. Jon stepped backwards, eying his feet nervously.

“Eyes up here, Jon,” Theon said.

Jon looked up.

Sam watched in amazement as they made one circle, then another and another, until they had a steady rhythm going. Whenever Jon faltered, Theon would do something with his hands or his feet and get him back on pace.

“This is…very slow,” Jon said.

“That’s why they call it slow dancing.”

Theon released Jon’s waist and flung him out, their other hands still joined. Sam recognized the move, though it was much more graceful when there was actual room to do it in. Nonetheless, Jon finished his steps and Theon reeled him back in and they returned to their usual rhythm with hardly a misstep.

They seemed so caught up in themselves, Sam was startled when Theon actually addressed him. “Are you watching?”

“I am,” Sam agreed. “It’s very…mathematical.” He could do mathematical.

“It’s all in the arms,” Theon said. “When you move your partner just right, your feet and her feet will know what to do.”

Sam stared at his own feet. He couldn’t imagine himself ever moving the way they did. He didn’t trust himself not to knock into something, let alone any poor woman who might have to dance with him.

“It’s not about control,” Jon said, not really looking at Sam at all. In fact, neither one of them was looking at him, but rather at each other, as if mesmerized. “It’s about trust.”

Theon smirked. “Do you trust me then, Jon?”

“You’re a good dancer, even if you are slow.”

“It’s easier to slow down than to catch up.”

Even though they were ostensibly doing this for his benefit, Sam suddenly felt like an intruder, like this was something private and intimate between the two of them. “Thank you for trying to teach me,” he said, getting to his feet, “but I don’t think Gilly is much of a dancer.”

The two of them paused, as if realizing he was still there. “Perhaps you’re right,” Theon said. He let go of Jon’s hand and waist. “Don’t listen to Jon anyway. He doesn’t know anything about women.”

A dark look came over Jon’s face, surprisingly dark, since even Sam could tell that Theon was joking. He must have said something that Jon found exceptionally unfunny.

“I’ll just…” Sam jerked his thumb towards the door. “Go.” The hammock swung back into place as he made for the exit, feeling awkward at interrupting on top of interrupting.


	28. Sun Over the Yard Arm

SANSA

 

“Congratulations.”

Robb looked up from the window.

“Sorry,” Sansa said, lacing her fingers together, the way her mother had taught her to do when she felt like fidgeting. It was, after all, unladylike to fidget. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I…I just wanted to congratulate you. On your betrothal, I mean.”

Robb nodded, half-heartedly. “Thank you.”

Sansa laced her fingers more tightly and came into the library. The light filtering in through the wide windows was cold, exposing every mote of dust in the air. The lights, of course, were out. Robb had no book in his lap. He seemed to just be staring out towards the port, at is expecting someone’s arrival.

“You’re not happy about it?” she asked. “Father said it was Margaery Tyrell. You told me you got on quite well with her at the Citadel. Is it…?” She paused. “Is it not a good match?”

Robb sighed and leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped on his knees. “Margaery is a lovely girl. Yes, I got on quite well with her. She’s from a Bloodline. It’s a good match. A perfect match. But…”

“You’re in love with someone else.” Sansa voiced her realization before she could stop herself.

The long lines of Robb’s face confirmed it.

“Does…Father not approve of this other woman?”

“Sansa…” Robb leaned back in his chair with a look of keen disappointment. “Do you suppose Lady loves you?”

Sansa blinked in surprise. “I know she does.”

“How do you know? Does she tell you?”

“Don’t be silly, Robb. Direwolves don’t talk.” She laced her fingers as she considered. “I know Lady loves me because…I can feel it. Through our Bond. She wants to be by my side all the time.” And Sansa would gladly have her by her side all the time, except direwolves were not allowed in the castle. When she’d first Bound Lady, she had taken to running her hands through the wolf’s soft fur for the sense of security it gave her. Until her mother declared that the shedding was getting out of hand and banished Lady to the kennels with the other dogs. It wasn’t long after that she’d taught Sansa to lace her fingers, whenever she felt the need to touch Lady’s fur.

“So…you know Lady loves you, even though she never says it?” Robb reiterated.

Sansa was growing annoyed. What did any of this have to do with his secret love… _oh_!

“You’re in love with Theon?”

Again, Robb’s look was confirmation enough.

“But he’s a…you two are…”

“We can’t get married, no.”

“Oh…Robb.” Her heart ached for him. The idea of two men…she had to admit it shocked her a bit, simply because she’d never considered it. “Does he…does Theon…?”

“Theon cares for me,” Robb said, sparing her from asking such a painful question. “But I don’t know if he… _loves_ me. He acts as though he does, but then he…” Her eyed her and seemed to be judging his words. “He…flirts with other people.”

That same annoyance flared up again. She wasn’t a little girl. He didn’t need to dance so carefully around her sensibilities. “He sleeps with them,” she stated. “I know. I’ve heard the kitchen girls talk.”

Robb’s cheeks turned red, and he hung his head. “Everyone knows.”

Sansa came to stand next to his chair. “Have you…asked him to stop?”

“I can’t.” Robb shook his head. “I can’t give him an order like that.”

“I didn’t ask if you’d _ordered_ him to stop. I asked if you’d _asked_ him to stop.”

Robb lifted his head. His eyes were red, and she saw the beginnings of tears swimming in them. She couldn’t remember seeing her brother cry, not for many years at least.

“Robb…” She placed a hand on his shoulder, felt him flinch. “You haven’t even talked to him about this, have you?”

“I have. He lets me know who he’s been with and gets regular checkups with an alchemist to make sure he doesn’t…” He bit his lip and seemed too embarrassed to continue. Sansa was a bit confused. What did seeing an alchemist have to do with…marital matters? She decided to ignore it.

“But have you talked about how it makes you feel…when he does that?”

Robb looked at her like she was crazy.

“Robb!” she scolded. “I know I’m not the only one who’s been given marriage lessons. Don’t you remember the first lesson Mother and Father taught us?”

“Marriage is built on trust and communication,” Robb recited. Muttered, more like. “But Theon and I—”

“You love him,” she interrupted, arms folded across her chest, the way Mother did when she was giving one of her children a good tongue-lashing. “He loves you too. I’m sure of it. I mean, it’s clear to everyone he adores you.” She’d just always thought it had been as a friend.

Robb regarded her for a moment, as if enlightenment had suddenly struck. Sansa was almost embarrassed at his obliviousness. The light quickly faded from his eyes, however, and his frown returned.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see him again. If he returns from his mission unsuccessful, his family will have him killed to power the Heart of Pyke. If he returns successful, I’m getting married.” He buried his face in his hands. “Or he might not return at all.”

Sansa tapped her shoe impatiently on the carpeted floor. “Or maybe we’ll all die.”

That got him to look up. Sansa had to admit she had surprised herself. Ladies were not supposed to voice their frustrations.

“Maybe we’ll all die,” she repeated, “and you’ll both go to your graves not knowing how the other feels. And maybe I’ll go to mine without ever getting married or knowing what true love is like. That’s my biggest regret.” She shook her head and turned on her heel. “You’re such an idiot, Robb,” she murmured without an ounce of vitriol.

“Sansa?” he called after her.

“I want to be with Lady right now,” she announced, not looking back. “I need to tell her how much I love her.”


	29. Hang the Moon and Stars

JON

 

The port was unlike any Jon had ever seen. So many ships and buildings and noises, the grinding of gears and blowing of whistles. “Is this the Citadel?” he asked as they pulled into the pier. Brightly-attired dockworkers caught the lines thrown to them to haul the ship in.

“No,” Theon said, one boot propped up on the gangplank as they prepared to lower it. “This is Port Broken Arm on Isle Sunspear in the Dornish Islands.”

Jon frowned. “Why are we stopping here?”

“To refuel,” Sam explained.

“We won’t be more than a few hours,” Theon said. “We just need enough fuel to get us to the Reach. They can do a full refuel there. I don’t want to waste any more time than we absolutely need to.” The ship was finally tied into place, and he kicked the gangplank down. It hit the boards of the pier with a wooden clank. “In the meanwhile, might as well make the most of hitting land, eh?” He looked Jon up and down in a way that, while not exactly as straightforward as he’d been the other night, still made Jon a bit uncomfortable.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m going to be frank.” Theon looped his arm in Jon’s. “Your clothes are awful and they make you stick out like a sore thumb.”

“A sore thumb?” Jon repeated. He’d never heard that expression before. “Don’t you usually keep a sore thumb tucked under your other fingers?”

Sam snorted but quickly regained himself when Theon shot him a look.

“And what is wrong with my clothing?” Jon demanded, subconsciously feeling the fabric of his doublet. It wasn’t his finest outfit, but it was reasonably fashionable, and made of expensive material besides.

“You look like an actor in a play,” Theon said, pulling him down the gangplank. “We’re going to update your wardrobe a bit. Oh, and…” He paused as their feet hit the pier. “Don’t…don’t talk, okay? If you can help it. Otherwise everyone will think you’re slow.”

“Slow?”

“In the head,” Theon said.

Jon clamped his teeth closed. He wanted desperately to argue that there was nothing wrong with the way he talked, but he suspected Theon would just make fun of anything he said. He allowed himself, somewhat begrudgingly, to be led into the mass of people, hauling luggage and crates of goods up and down the dock. Sam followed closely behind them, occasionally even grabbing onto the back of Jon’s shirt so that he wouldn’t get left behind in the bustle.

They made their way into the even more crowded streets, where people forewent the niceties of the dock and simply shoved—using their elbows, shoulders, bodies, whatever it took to push an offending obstacle out of their path. Jon felt himself practically battered as they clipped through the alleyways, past stalls and store fronts full of colorful goods. Overly aggressive salesmen and urchins with grabby hands alike tried to part travelers with their money, but Theon shooed them all away with a practiced ease.

Sam abruptly stopped in front of one of these stores, and Theon would have kept going if Jon hadn’t ground to a halt as well. “Shouldn’t we stay together?” he suggested.

Sam nodded towards the building with a sign Jon couldn’t exactly read. “I’m going to send a message to the Citadel,” he said. “I’ll meet you…uh…back at the docks in a few hours.”

“Don’t get lost,” Theon said, almost not unkindly.

Sam disappeared inside the building, and Theon tugged Jon along.

“I’ve been to this port city a few times,” he said as they turned onto a smaller street. “In fact, this is where I got my coat.” He gestured to said coat, and Jon wrinkled his nose. Fashion had changed since his time, but Theon still seemed overdressed in comparison to what he’d seen so far. Jon, personally, had no desire to look like a prostitute or a dandy. Theon didn’t seem to notice his distaste, though, eye focused ahead. “This guy does great work. I promise you.”

There was a shop up ahead, and although Jon couldn’t read the sign, it was clear from the items in the window that this was a clothing store. He eyed the row of statues, vaguely manlike in appearance—more like scarecrows really—as they moved in odd, unnatural ways, waving their arms, tipping their hats, one even bowing at the waist before jerking back upright.

“Mechannequins. Simple mechanical automatons,” Theon explained. “Guy makes them himself, to show off his clothes.” Jon must have had a distrustful look on his face, but Theon rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to attack you. They’re stuck on tracks, for Gods’ sakes. Now, get in here and remember…”

“Don’t talk,” Jon finished.

“Now you’re getting it.”

They entered the shop. It smelled of dust and soap and was very dry inside. A row of more “mechannequins” greeted them, though these were, thankfully, motionless. Jon could more easily focus on their clothing, which did seem rather finely made. Scraps of clothing and other materials lay strewn about on the floor. And in the back, behind a drafting desk, a young man sat furiously scribbling at something.

“Gendry!” Theon called.

The young man looked up. A look of recognition passed his face. He stood and came over to them, wiping his hands on pinstripe pants. “Theon, good to see you again.” He shook hands with Theon. “And your friend. A new customer?” He offered his hand, and Jon saw that it was still streaked with charcoal. He took it anyway.

“My friend,” Theon said, slapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder, “needs a new outfit.”

“I guessed,” Gendry said, looking him up and down. He was surprisingly young, Jon thought, and built more like a blacksmith than a tailor. Although, if he’d built the mechanical monsters in the window, perhaps he had a touch of metalworking skill as well. “What were you thinking?”

“Nothing too fancy,” Theon said, and Gendry guffawed.

“Don’t want to be upstaged?”

“Are you kidding? You couldn’t upstage me if you tried.”

“I see you’re still wearing the coat I made you.”

“Never leave home without it.”

Gendry nodded and folded his arms over his broad chest, studying Jon with renewed interest. “I’m afraid to say that I can’t make anything new. Not on such short notice and not when—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a grinding noise filled the air. Jon’s eyes immediately shot to the floor, expecting an earthquake. But no rumbling followed. What did follow was the dimming of the lights overhead, causing Jon to swing his head upwards. They went out with a small pop. The mechannequins stopped their unnatural movements, and out on the streets, a great groan went up, as if from a hundred people.

“It’s getting worse, then,” Theon noted.

“Every day,” Gendry agreed. He motioned with his hand. “Well, in any case, I can still sell you an outfit and alter it to your liking.”

They followed him to the back of the shop, and he began pulling items off racks, seemingly at random, and handing them to Theon.

“Breeches, dress shirt,” he listed off. “That will cover the basics.”

“Like I said, he doesn’t need anything fancy.”

“In that case, we’ll stick with dark colors. You like dark colors, right?”

Jon opened his mouth to talk, then remembered he wasn’t supposed to and simply nodded instead.

“A waistcoat for your pocket watch, then. Good?”

Jon didn’t know what either of those words were, so he nodded again and Gendry handed him a vest. It would have been easier if he’d simply _called_ it a vest in the first place.

“You want to try those on?” Gendry motioned even farther back, to a curtained off area. “Feel free to change back there.”

Jon took the clothes numbly. It wasn’t until he’d ducked behind the curtain that he realized he wasn’t entirely sure how to get into the clothes. He poked his head out. “Theon.”

Theon turned from whatever conversation he was having with Gendry.

“I need…”

Theon seemed to realize what he meant and thankfully spared Jon from having to say anymore. He did give Jon a mocking grin as he closed the curtain off behind him. “You seriously need my help to dress?”

Jon held up the strange straps on the breeches. “What are these?”

“Suspenders. They keep the pants from falling down around your ankles. They didn’t have them in your time, I’m guessing?”

Jon shook his head.

“Alright. I’ll show you how it’s done. Take your pants off.”

Jon felt his face flush.

Theon held out his hands. “Okay, we’ll start with the shirt first. Can you take off your…tunic?”

“My doublet?” Jon asked, uncertain if that was what he’d meant.

“Yeah, whatever. Take everything from the waist up…off.”

That was still uncomfortable, but doable, Jon supposed. He unlaced his doublet and pulled off his undershirt, leaving him bare-chested. It was warm in the shop, but he still hugged himself at the invisible chill that raised the hair along his arms. When he looked up, he found Theon staring at him intently, and not in the face, but like a curious animal.

“May I…?” Jon reached out for his new shirt.

Theon shook, as if snapping out of a trance, and handed the shirt over. “Sure. It’s…pretty much the same as the one you took off. You slip it on over your head.”

Jon did. The fabric was lighter than what he was used to, and the shirt hung down to his mid-thighs.

“There, that’s better,” Theon said. “Now take your pants off. I’ll…uh, turn around if you want.”

“I do.”

Theon turned while Jon stripped off his shoes, belt, breeches, and hose. The new shirt, though thin, did an adequate job of saving his modesty. He coughed to signal Theon could turn back around.

“Now…” Theon held out the breeches with the odd straps. “You know how to put on pants, I take it? One leg at a time.”

“Of course.”

“Same principle.”

Jon took the garment, and Theon turned around again while Jon slid it on. This time, the fabric was much stiffer than what he was used to, and tighter. He pulled it up to his waist, letting the shirt hang over it. He coughed again.

Theon turned and nodded in approval. “Alright. Now, tuck your shirt into your waistband.” Without asking, he stepped forward and began stuffing the hem of the shirt into the breeches, his hand precariously close to...

Jon gasped and pulled back, more because of the sudden thrill of it, like an electric shock, rather than any sort of violation.

Theon stepped back too, arms raised. “Sorry, sorry.”

“I can do it myself,” Jon insisted. The notion of tucking in a shirt was not foreign to him, after all. “Like this?”

“Yeah, great. Now, the suspenders…” Theon took a hesitant step forward. “May I?”

Jon wasn’t sure how intimate the next touch would be, but he truly didn’t know what to do with the straps. So he nodded and braced himself.

It wasn’t bad at all, though. Theon simply took one of the straps and pulled it up over his shoulder, down his chest, and clipped it to the front of the breeches. “Like that,” he said. “You…want to try the other one?”

It was a bit awkward, reaching behind his back like that, but he managed it, and felt an undue sense of pride at something so simple.

Theon took a step back. “You look like a working man.”

“Is that…bad?”

Theon shrugged. “We’ll get you classed up.”

The next items were easier. The dress shirt went over the undershirt and buttoned at the front. The vest went over the dress shirt and also buttoned in the front. A scarf that Theon called a “cravat” was tied in an intricate knot at his throat. When Jon looked into the full-length mirror, he supposed he didn’t look too bad. A bit fussy, perhaps, and it was fairly tight about the armpits and crotch, but he could get used to it.

“I like it,” he announced.

Theon clapped his hands together. “Great. We’ll have Gendry make a few alterations and then we’ll be out of here.” He turned to go, but Jon grabbed his hand.

“I…haven’t any money.”

Theon pulled out of his grasp. “I’m paying.”

“But I…”

“If you really want to repay me—” Theon pointed to the lights on the ceiling, which still had not come back on. “—just work on fixing that problem.”

Jon nodded, for the first time feeling the full weight of what Theon was expecting from him. He had no idea what his father had done to fix the hearts a thousand years ago. And all these people…in the streets, at the docks, on their ship…they were all depending on him. A tightness gripped his chest, and for a moment the dryness of the shop made it difficult to breathe.

He didn’t say anything as Gendry measured and pinned and made minor changes to the outfit they’d chosen for him. He couldn’t let them know the extent of his doubts.

As they exited the shop, Theon seemed in good spirits, laughing and joking about something Jon didn’t entirely understand. “Let’s head back to the docks,” he said jovially. “See if they haven’t finish re—”

He stopped abruptly, like a dog scenting an animal. Jon heard it too. There was a commotion up ahead. Together, they ducked into a side alley as a thickset man with dark hair and cold eyes came barging his way through the crowd, hauling a smaller man by the collar of his shirt.

“That’s the pirate that attacked your tower,” Theon hissed. “I knew he’d track us down again.” He reached into his coat, possibly for the knife Jon knew was stashed there.

The cold-eyed man continued to knock the smaller man around. “Are you sure you haven’t seen anyone like that come by this way? I’ll say it again. Man with dark hair, medium build, greenish…grayish eyes…maybe. He’d be wearing a black coat with gold trim. Very punchable face. He might have had a woman with him.”

The man shook his head. “I…I don’t know.”

The cold-eyed man threw him to the ground in disgust and turned to an even taller, blond-haired man at his side. “What do you think?”

“I think…” The blond man put his hands on his hips. “We know where their ship is. They’ve got to return eventually. I say we wait there for them.”

The cold-eyed man scratched at his neck. “Fine. I can be patient when I need to.” He gave the small man a kick to the gut, and he and his friend turned back down the alley.

“What should we do?” Jon asked. When he looked over his shoulder, he was surprised to find Theon smiling. A sinister sort of smile.

“I’ve got the perfect plan to throw them off your trail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot? What are _you_ doing here?


	30. Dark Horse

THEON

 

Three harpoons smashed into the side of the ship. This was getting out of hand.

While a pair of crewmembers ran below deck to try to hammer the harpoons loose, Theon drew his blade—his steel blade—and prepared to be boarded. He hadn’t been boarded in a long while, and the last time it had happened, Jory hadn’t even let him fight. This might get exciting.

The pirates had caught up with him faster than he would have liked, but long enough that his plan wouldn’t be blasted to shreds. No to mention, they were close enough to port—a few hours at most, by his estimation—to send out a distress beacon. The peacekeepers would be forced to respond, and that would buy them even more time.

Even if it turned out, after everything had been reined in by the enforcers, that the pirates were sent from the Citadel and firing on Theon’s unauthorized ship was perfectly legal. In which case Theon and his crew were heading to prison. Not a prospect he was looking forward to, but he trusted Robb would come to his defense in such a case.

All of that was worst case scenario, though. He had little doubt they could fend off these attackers. For one, while they seemed similarly matched in numbers, the ox-captain’s crew was obviously not equipped for sky travel. It was almost comical, watching them dart around on deck as the ox-captain bellowed orders.

They were faster than Theon had given them credit for. Their ship was small, but well-built, possibly with an alchemy-enhanced propulsion system. Something the Citadel easily could have requisitioned for their own purposes.

In any case, a confrontation was looking more and more inevitable.

Several more harpoons fired from the pirate ship, drawing their two vessels together with long strands of rope. From the attacking ship, the large blond man Theon had seen earlier was readying their gangplank.

“They’re going to board us,” Theon announced. “Send out the distress flare. We’ll fend them off until help arrives.”

Twin bursts of colored smoke erupted overhead, just as the enemy’s gangplank crashed into their deck, biting in and latching on with wicked metal studs. The pirates charged across.

The first one didn’t even make it all the way, but took a bullet to the head. Lucky for the poor bastard, he was dead as his body plummeted overboard and into the Core. Theon still winced. If that really was a lackey from the Citadel, they could all reasonably be charged with murder. And Theon, being captain, would take the hardest fall.

“Try not to kill them!” he hollered. “Only kill to defend your life.”

Displeased murmurs went up among the crew, but Theon didn’t have time to explain the laws of international sky space.

“That’s an order!” he screamed, raising his voice. “Aim to wound. Kill only if it comes down to between your life or theirs.” He cocked his head towards the pirates. “Now, give those bastards hell.”

Shouts of agreement mingled with battle cries as the two sides clashed. Metal struck metal; gunshots were met with gunshots. The air was filled with smoke from discharged firearms while disembodied screams rose over the sound of weapons.

In the fog, Theon met a thin man wielding a curved blade and a manic grin. Their eyes met; Theon knew bloodlust when he saw it. Seeing as he had his own blade in hand, he decided to indulge his opponent.

They met with a vicious blow of metal on metal that sent up sparks. The man bared sharp, rat-like teeth at him as he pressed forward with his blade. “Gonna cut your pretty face off,” he hissed. “Gonna give it as a present to Ramsay.”

“I wouldn’t give your face to anyone,” Theon said. “Don’t know anyone I hate enough to inflict that on them.”

“Smart mouth, smart mouth. We’ll see how smart your mouth is without a tongue.”

The man pulled back and swung wide. Theon ducked with ease. As the man stumbled to regain his footing, Theon took the liberty of cutting a quick, neat line in his palm, drawing blood. He’d been holding off initially, as he was still feeling the effects of blood loss, but he suspected it would be better to end this fight early.

His opponent turned back with a wild, downward swing more apt for splitting logs than knife fighting. On one knee, Theon blocked it with his steel blade, and with his blood blade, he struck low, slicing the man’s ankle. He was on the ground, blood pooling from his severed tendon, before he even knew what had happened.

Theon stepped over him—might have stepped _on_ him—and looked for another opponent.

It was hard to make out who was who in the dark smoke. The screams of battle filled his ears—excitement, fear, pain. He spun around as a high-pitched woman’s scream rose above the others. There were several women on the crew, but _that_ particular scream…

It was the scream of a non-combatant caught in the crossfire. Which meant the pirates had found their way below deck.

Theon ran forward, unthinking. The sound of it led him to the cabin, where two men were dragging a woman across the deck by her hair as she kicked and screamed. Theon recognized her immediately—the tiny cook Sam fancied. He regretted that he couldn’t remember her name and was only able to shout a, “Hey!” before throwing himself at the men attacking her.

One of the men fumbled for a pistol at his side, but Theon was quicker, delivering an elbow to his face that sent him to his knees, clutching a broken nose.

The other man yanked the cook up by her hair and held his knife to her throat. “D-don’t move!” he yelled in an uncertain voice. “Or I’ll kill the Day Princess.”

Theon looked from him to the cook. “Does she _look_ like the Day Princess to you?”

“She was hiding down there.” The man shrugged towards the cabin.

“Please, sir,” the cook pleaded, her eyes wide, her throat bobbing in terror. “He’s right. I’m no princess.”

“Quiet!” He jerked the knife against her throat, and she squealed.

“Let her go,” Theon said. “She’s not the Day Princess. The Day Princess isn’t even on this ship.”

“What?” The man scowled. “You’re lying.”

“You can search all you want while we wait for the port authorities to show up.” Theon nodded towards the colored streams of smoke overhead, hazy in the fog. “You won’t find her. She’s somewhere far from here by now.”

“Liar,” the man hissed. “Tell me where the Day Princess is now or I’ll slit this bitch’s throat.”

Theon held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll tell you. She’s right behind you.”

The man frowned and turned. Theon darted forward, grabbing the hand with the knife and wrenching it backwards. His opponent shrieked as bones cracked, and the cook made a quick escape from his now-limp clutch. Arm still in hand, Theon slammed the man against the wall of the cabin, pinning him.

“Who sent you?” he demanded, pulling the wrist at an odd angle that had the man wailing. “Who from the Citadel?”

“No one! No one!” With his free hand, the man slapped the wall, begging for mercy.

“Why are you here then? How do you know about the Day Princess?”

“R-Ramsay…” He could barely get a coherent sentence out. “He…he’s the one who—”

Theon didn’t get to hear the rest, because at that moment, a sharp, piercing pain laced up his neck. Like a bee sting, it struck him in waves—pain, confusion, pain again. He was aware of someone grabbing him, holding him tightly as that pain continued to throb in the juncture of his throat and shoulder. He lashed out with his blood blade, only to find his hand wet with blood.

The blade! The blade was gone.

He hadn’t dropped it. He was sure he hadn’t dropped it. It was still in his hand.

His head swam. The arms holding him let loose, and he fell to the floor, as weak as an infant. In his mind, he screamed out for his blood to form the blade, but it wouldn’t…it wouldn’t respond.

Now a wave of panic came over him. It felt as if he were limbless, unable to make the most important parts of his body move. He felt paralyzed, even as he brought his hand up to feel the pain at his neck.

More blood.

Tooth marks.

He looked up.

The ox-captain was standing over him, lips and chin smeared with blood. _Theon’s_ blood. He smiled down with sharp teeth. A fat, red tongue ran over his lips, like a dog licking its jowls.

“Thank you for so generously offering your Bloodline to me, Greyjoy.”


	31. Bring to Light

SAM

 

“I don’t like it any more than you,” Sam said as Jon hung back from the gangplank.

They’d found a sizeable cruise vessel heading for the Reach. Jon had moped all the way to the capital city, where they had found a charter to take them to the Citadel. All on Theon’s coin, of course.

“He said he would meet us here, didn’t he?” Sam said, motioning for Jon to stop blocking the way of the other passengers.

Sam hadn’t had any say in the plan. He’d sent his message from the post master’s station, only to be waylaid by Theon as he stepped back out on the street, pulled into a dark alley, and told he was to take Jon and find another vessel back to the Citadel. They already had the advantage, according to Theon, of the ruffians thinking they were looking for a woman, but just to be sure, Theon would take the hired ship and lure the pirates away from port to give them the extra chance to escape.

Sam didn’t like it. Jon even less so.

“There’s no need to put yourself in danger like that,” he’d argued.

“I won’t be in danger,” Theon said. “We won’t be far from the port. If things start to look bad, we’ll call for help.”

“But why does it need to be you?” Jon argued back.

“Because it needs to be. That brute-of-a-captain knows my face. If he sees me with you…” He smiled lopsidedly. “All that matters if getting you to the Citadel. Sam will be a better guide than I could ever be.”

Jon had tried fruitlessly to talk him out of it, but in the end, it had been an order.

“It’s been two days,” Jon said as they made their way down the gangplank, still dragging his heels.

“It might take him a while,” Sam reassured, though, to be truthful, he was worried that Theon was in the port’s holding cell at the moment. If that were the case, he would need to contact Robb Stark about seeing to his servant’s bail. Not something he was looking forward to.

There was a worse option, of course. That things had gone bad and help had not arrived as soon as Theon expected. But Sam didn’t want to burden Jon with that thought. Better to act as if he had confidence in Theon’s plan.

There was nothing they could do about it at the moment, in any case. Jon may not be the Day Princess, but he was their best chance of solving this crisis. Sam needed to get him to those documents right away.

They made their way up the slope towards the Citadel’s campus. He presented his apprentice’s key to the guard at the front door. The woman eyed him up and down. “Apprentice alchemist Samwell?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “I…I called ahead. Grand Master Alchemist Baelish will want to see me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She pursed her lips skeptically. “Wait right here.” She took his key with her.

Sam had a strange, itchy sensation at the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. His rational mind and years of training told him to wait here obediently while the guard went to go fetch a Master Alchemist. His instincts, such as they were, were telling him to get Jon to the library posthaste. It was almost a physical compulsion, and one he didn’t entirely understand.

“You’re restless,” Jon noted.

“I just…my neck…”

Sam trailed off, remembering that his father often complained of a pain at the back of his neck whenever he felt danger was nearby. A remnant of the watered down Tyrell Bloodline. But Sam didn’t have any of that. He’d never shown any indication of premonition or precognition. He was simply as normal as they came, good at memorizing facts but otherwise even an unremarkable alchemist.

“We have to get out of here.” Sam grabbed Jon’s hand and pulled him along.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “Just a feeling, I guess.”

Jon didn’t ask any more questions.

They followed the campus wall until Sam found the back entrance to the dormitories. It was locked, of course, but the apprentice’s key was just a formality; anyone who had passed basic classes could unlock the mechanism. They entered into the empty hallways on the other side. Even though he technically wasn’t doing anything wrong, it still felt like breaking the rules.

“The library is this way,” he said. “We have the original manuscripts there.”

They met students passing between classes, carrying stacks of books, alchemy orbs, sextons and abaci, too busy to give them much notice. Even the occasional Alchemist Master paid them no mind. They slipped un-accosted into the library, and Sam was beginning to wonder if he’d let his paranoia get the better of him.

Seeing the Citadel’s library for the first time, when he’d arrived a few years ago, had been one of the best moments of his life. The floor-to-ceiling shelves, endless rows of them, the smell of aged paper and leather…it had been like a dream come true. And though he came in here almost every day for classes, it never ceased to amaze him. Seeing Jon stare up in amazement gave him a sense of pride, though he knew he had nothing to do with it.

“Let’s see if we can’t find those records,” he said, prompting Jon along.

He knew the library’s system like the proverbial back of his hand. Navigating the mazelike shelving was no issue, though climbing the ladder to get to the proper shelf was a bit of a chore. The ladders were old and rickety and not build from someone of his…stature. And the book itself was the size of a serving tray, and thick, so he had some trouble getting it back down. Managing finally by tucking it under his arm and handing it off to Jon once he was low enough on the ladder to do so.

Together, they found a table in one of the quiet corners, and Sam opened the book delicately. “Be…be careful,” he said, stepping aside so Jon could take over. “The pages are fragile. In fact, we really should be wearing gloves while handling them.”

Jon ignored him, his brow knit in concentration as he turned the page. His lips moved as his eyes roved across the tattered sheets. “Being an account of the failing will of the hearts,” he read from words that did not look like they should be pronounced that way. “In the year of the New Calendar, being 870, the hearts, being the will of the Gods, grew weakened and waned, and the land became corrupt. In order that our lands should not vanish, those of the Blood did understand that the heart must be made an offering and that each Blood member must nourish a heart with son and heir.”

“Son and heir,” Sam repeated. “Are you sure that’s what it says?”

“As clear as a cloudless day,” Jon said, gesturing to the passage on the page. “You told me your scholars believed a blood sacrifice was necessary?”

Sam nodded.

“When it plainly says this is not the case.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Sam found his own confusion mirrored on Jon’s face. “Son and heir,” Jon repeated.

“Yes, son and heir. Each family needs to sacrifice an heir.”

Jon shook his head. “Son,” he repeated. He pointed his finger upwards, towards the library’s high windows. “Son.”

Sam looked up. “Oh…the sun?” he said with dawning realization. “But the spelling…”

“I do not see anything in here about a spell.”

“No, I mean…how the word is written.”

Jon looked at him as if he were speaking utter nonsense.

“Right,” Sam said. “They didn’t have spelling back in your time, did they?” He stood on his toes to look over Jon’s shoulder. _Sonn_. It still looked like the word for one’s male child to him, but Jon seemed to disagree. “And…heir?” Spelled _‘Eir_.

Jon made wide motions with his arms. “Heir.”

Sam realized as soon as he heard it out loud.

“Air? As in…like, wind?”

Jon nodded.

“But this mark here…” Sam jabbed at the apostrophe. “Doesn’t that denote a dropped _h_?”

“Hair?” Jon asked. “What you have been calling me all along. The Ninth Hair.”

“ _That’s_ how you pronounce that word?”

Jon stared at him. “Peasants are known to forget letters when they speak. They are known for their lazy pronunciation, but not their ability to write.” He jabbed at the manuscript. “No peasant wrote this. If ‘ _hair’_ was meant, ‘ _hair’_ would have been written.”

Sam felt dizzy, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. “The scholars did read it wrong.” He closed the book and gathered it up in his arms. “We…we have to tell them right away. This means…this changes everything.”

As they made their way back through the maze of books, retracing their steps, a commotion at the end of one of the rows caused them to pause. Around the corner came none of than Grand Master Alchemist Baelish himself, flanked by a half dozen guards, one of whom Sam recognized from the front gate.

“Grand Master.” Sam hurried forward, brandishing the book as Jon clipped his feet from behind. “The records…the hearts don’t need blood. They’re recharged by the sun. We need to expose them to the son and air. It’s so simple, I can’t believe we never—”

“Apprentice Sam,” he barked. “Stay right where you are.”

Sam froze. The prickling in his neck had returned.

“You are under arrest for theft of Citadel property.”

Sam blinked as he tried to decipher the words. Arrest? For theft? Realizing what Baelish must be saying, he held the book out. “I had no intention of stealing it, Grand Master. I only meant—”

“The sample from the geology department,” Baelish interrupted with a scoff. “Plus the materials used to make a unregulated homing orb. Not to mention your unauthorized absence during your studies. Or have you forgotten the oath you took during your orientation ceremony? ‘I shall serve no authority but that of the Citadel.’”

“But I haven’t,” Sam protested.

“Then why were you taking orders from Robb Stark, a sovereign of a foreign nation?”

“I…” Sam had cleared his absence with Master Alchemist Aemon, but perhaps he had overlooked some regulation. “I’ll take any punishment you deem fit, Grand Master, but I’ve found important information you need to listen to.”

Baelish nodded to the guards. “Arrest him.”

Sam took a step back. “What?”

One guard snatched the book out of his hands while another grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back.

“What are you doing?” Jon demanded, looking like he wanted to interfere but unsure if he should.

Baelish frowned. “That is an unusual accent you have there.”

“It’s the old language,” Sam explained. Yes, this was all a big misunderstanding. “He’s the Ninth Heir I was sent to find. He figured out what we need to do to save the hearts.”

“You disappoint me, Apprentice Sam.” Baelish stepped forward. His robes whispered across the ground. “To believe in such fairy tales…it is unbecoming of an alchemist.”

“He speaks truly,” Jon said, putting a hand on his own chest. “I am Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. You must listen to us. We know how to save your hearts. Nobody needs to die.”

Baelish regarded him for a moment, and Sam was sure that he was at least considering the possibility. But then Baelish waved his hand dismissively. “This is more pathetic than I originally thought. This man has obviously conned you, Apprentice Sam, to gain access to the Citadel. Guards, arrest the intruder as well.”

“Wait,” Sam protested. “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

He was soundly ignored as they advanced on Jon

Jon delivered a blow to one attacking guard’s nose. The man slammed into the shelves, raining books down on them. Sam winced more at the damaged books than the man’s obviously broken nose. Jon was doing remarkably well at holding his own, given the narrow space and obviously being outnumbered.

Not for long, though.

Baelish stepped forward and snapped his fingers, and Jon dropped to the ground like a brick of lead. There were a number of things the Grand Master Alchemist could have done to elicit such an outcome, some of them quite horrible. From the way Jon continued to struggle, seemingly unable to even lift his head, Sam guessed Baelish had made his body heavy.

The three remaining guards fell on him, each grabbing an arm. Baelish snapped his fingers again, and whatever spell had been holding Jon in place was released. He renewed his struggling, to less avail now that his arms were pinned behind his back, just like Sam’s were.

“You asked for my help,” he snarled.

“I asked for no such thing, boy. I don’t know what your game is or what you think your deception will gain you, but I guarantee you, crimes against the Citadel are taken very seriously.” Baelish waved his hand. “Take them to the holding cells. We will deal with them later.”

“Wait!” Sam cried as they were both hauled away. “You’re making a mistake!”

As they were dragged around the corner, he thought he might have caught of a glimpse of Baelish _smiling_ at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Spelling wasn't codified into the English language until the [19th century](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English-language_spelling_reform).


	32. Oh Dark Hundred

JON

 

They dragged him, none-too-gently, into a stone cell and held him against the wall while they wrestled his wrists in manacles.

Jon was still uncertain about what had happened. There had been some heated words. Apparently Sam’s superiors did not believe him and were not too keen on listening to reason.

To his left, he heard Sam arguing with them as he received similar treatment. “Please, listen to me. You don’t know what you’re doing. The hearts! They’re going to kill innocent people. We have to tell the—” He was abruptly silenced by a punch to the gut.

A wave of protectiveness rose up in Jon’s chest, and he pulled the chains. “You cannot treat us like this!”

His response was to have his head held back and something forced into his mouth. A cloth gag. The guard applying it must have taken vicious delight in tying it uncomfortably tight so that it pulled against the corners of his lips. He found himself unable to speak or protest, only to drool around the bit of cloth in his mouth.

“What’s that for?” Sam wheezed, still recovering from the punch.

“Baelish’s orders,” the guard answered. “Now shut your maw or I’ll give you one too.”

“You’re…not giving me one?”

“Baelish specified this one. Don’t see why; it’s not like anyone understands him anyway. But…” The man shrugged. “The Grand Master Alchemist was very specific.” He patted Jon’s cheek. “You two behave down here. We’re very busy up there, saving the world and all.”

He and the other guards left, closing a door with barred windows behind them. Locked from the outside, Jon was willing to bet.

He tested his manacles. No give. They were at an uncomfortable angle, holding his hands above his head. He felt badly for Sam, whose arms were held at the same height as his, despite behind several inches shorter.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Sam sighed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I mucked this all up, but I did, and now you’re dragged into it as well.”

Jon desperately wanted to tell him it was not his fault. His superiors. They were stubborn. Or stupid. Or stubbornly stupid. In a way, it was a relief to see that the incompetence of men and women in authority had not changed in the last thousand years.

They stood there in awkward silence for a few minutes.

As far as dungeons went, he’d seen worse. The dungeons under his family’s castle had been much darker and damper. This was at least clean, well-maintained, dry. Up above, higher than any man could hope to climb—or even two men, one standing on the other’s shoulders—was a barred window that let in an acceptable amount of light. The floor was dirt, but that was the most primitive feature. Jon could well guess what the bucket in the corner was for, though he wouldn’t be making use of it with the way he was chained.

All in all, not the worst place to be locked away and forgotten about. A bit on the small side, perhaps the size of the cabin he’d shared with Theon these last few days…

Theon. Where was he now? Was he well? Had his end of the plan worked out better than Jon and Sam’s? Was he on his way here now, to untangle this mess? Jon felt very much like a damsel in distress, waiting for rescue.

As much as he hated to admit it, he’d felt lost and adrift without the other man by his side. Nights had been sleepless, despite the relative luxury of the vessel they’d boarded out of Port Broken Arm. Sam was good company and Jon was glad he was here now, but there was a security to Theon. His tether.

Sam’s awkward cough echoed off the stones. Jon blinked back to himself.

“We’re alone here.”

Yes, Jon had noticed that.

“Why was Baelish so insistent on gagging you? Who does he think you’re going to talk to?”

Jon wouldn’t have known what to say to that if he could speak.

Sam was thinking, though. Furiously by the tight knit of his brow. “Sometimes they gag prisoners who are in danger of killing themselves…biting their own tongues.” His eyes roved across the dirt floor, as if reading it. “I don’t see what he would care, unless he has plans of interrogating you later… Still, seems a bit excessive.”

Jon had to agree with him.

He wasn’t done voicing his thoughts. “I wonder…maybe he suspects you’re a Greyjoy…or a Martell. They can be dangerous just by drawing blood. So he doesn’t want you biting your tongue to draw blood.” He rattled the manacles. “Would explain the restraints as well. He’s keen on you not bleeding. I wonder…”

He fell silent.

“No.”

Jon rattled his own chains, a demand that he finish his thought.

“Well…I mean, he _knows_ that we went looking for the ninth Bloodline. But he told me he doesn’t believe it. Still thinks it’s a fairy tale.” He shrugged. “He must not want to take a chance.” He slumped in defeat. “No, that can’t be right. If he even suspected you were the Ninth Heir, he’d hear us out, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t lock us away…on trumped up charges…”

Jon shook his head.

Either Sam understood what he meant, or they arrived at the same conclusion together. “Baelish is a Grand Master Alchemist. He wouldn’t deliberately…sabotage us. He couldn’t. Not on something so important. And _why_? What possible motive could he have?”

Again, Jon wouldn’t have known what to say even if he could speak.

Silence fell as Sam continued to ponder, his expression shifting from thoughtful to confused, occasionally seeming to come across some realization before quickly dropping it for confusion again. Jon, obviously, had nothing to contribute. His arms began to ache terribly after a while, and found himself swallowing often as drool collected around the gag. He had an itch on his nose that was quickly becoming intolerable. The longer time went on—judged by the movement of the sun in the high window—the more he became convinced that Sam’s superiors meant simply to leave them here forever.

Finally, after what was easily hours, the cell door opened and a smirking man Jon did not recognize came in. Sam recognized him though. “Brother Alliser?”

“I always knew you were a fuck-up,” the man said. “A message came in for you. I was sent to deliver it.”

Jon lifted his head. Theon. It had to be from Theon, clearing this mess up.

“You’ll forgive me if I misread parts. Whatever uneducated idiot sent it can’t spell worth a shit.” The man, Brother Alliser, pulled out a scrolled-up bit of paper, unrolled it, and cleared his throat. “‘ _Attaked_ off Port Broken Arm. Ship set on fire. _Two dead_.’ I feel like adding, both of those last two words were misspelled.”

Jon felt a cold sweat forming on his brow. Two dead?

“‘Sent for help, but it did not _arriv_ in time. _Survivving_ crew got away in _emersioncy’_ —I wonder if they meant _emergency_ —‘craft. _Pirats_ _excaped_ and took _Captin_ Greyjoy with them.’”

“Wh-what?” Sam stammered.

“‘ _Sined_ …Gilly.’ Oh, isn’t that cute?” Brother Alliser crumpled up the message and dropped it on the floor. “As much as I was able to decipher this drivel, it appears your wild hare chase cost two people their lives and got a prince kidnapped.” He clapped his hands, as if applauding. “Well done, Apprentice Sam. Well done.”

“But I—”

“You’ve caused so much trouble for the Citadel, its academy, and the Bloodlines. No doubt Grand Master Alchemist Baelish will be dealing with the consequences of your actions for some time to come. And what do you have to show for all of it, hmm?”

“Brother Alliser, please,” Sam appealed. “I know you hate me, but you have to send a message to Master Alchemist Aemon. He needs to know that Baelish is trying to cover up what we found. The alchemists need to speak with Jon.”

Brother Alliser shook his head. “You are a pathetic alchemist. When I get the title of Master Alchemist, I will be sure we do not allow fuck-ups like you to even step foot on our campus.” Chuckling, he kicked the crumpled-up scrap of paper and left, slamming the door behind him loud enough to reverberate off the walls.

Sam gave a feeble kick that only succeeded in scuffing the dirt. “We need to get a message to the Master Alchemists,” he said. “They need to know that Baelish is withholding information from them.”

In truth, Jon was not so concerned with that. Theon…Theon was alive…and being held prisoner by the pirates who had attacked them at the tower. And nobody here was going to do a thing about it. Nobody here seemed to even care.

Jon pulled at his manacles with renewed anger. He wasn’t a damsel in distress waiting for Theon to rescue him. He was the one who needed to rescue Theon. Fuck the politics of this new world. If nobody was going to do what needed to be done—to save Theon, to save the hearts from failing—then he would do it on his own.

They thought to keep him from bleeding by gagging him, but he had another option. The ring Theon had given him, for just such an occasion. His hands were held high above his head, but he was able to use his thumb to turn the band on his ring finger around so that he could gain access to the jewel on top with the hidden pinprick. He paused, though, thumb poised to press down.

He’d never used his Bloodline. And the times he’d seen his father and Dany use theirs had been outdoors. Would the dragon be able to get to him in here? Would it even answer his call?

The bit of paper with Gilly’s message rested just a pace away from his feet. Seeing it, knowing what was written inside, made his mind for him.

He pressed down on the jewel and felt the sting of the needle almost simultaneously.

Blood dribbled down his hand. Working his fingers, he was able to get a sizeable drop to bead in his palm. He then tilted his hand downwards and felt, more than saw, the drop gain enough weight to fall from his outstretched palm to the ground. It hit the dirt, its red hue immediately vanishing among the brown earth.

Jon closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall, and waited.


	33. A New Light

PETYR

 

“Sir! Uh, Grand Master Alchemist…sir. The…the north tower’s just come down.”

Petyr spun on his heel. “You don’t say!” he snapped at the guard. As if he hadn’t seen it for himself. As if he hadn’t felt it. As if he weren’t witnessing it from his study’s window this _very_ moment.

He’d _known_ , the exact moment he’d felt the rumbling, exactly who was responsible. That boy Apprentice Sam had so foolishly brought here, endangering his plans. He should have had the guards toss the both of them into the Core. Nobody would have to know. But Petyr had figured it would be wiser to keep a potential asset around for later use. Blame his own need to obsessively plan.

“What…should we do about it?” the dimwitted guard asked.

Petyr took a deep breath to calm himself. “Have the Master Alchemists assess the damage, and have them ready to take defensive action as possible. Tell them that if they see Apprentice Sam or the man he brought here to kill them on sight.”

“On…sight…sir?”

“Do it!” he barked.

The guard scurried away, bypassing Senior Master Alchemists Melisandre and Varys. Petyr eyed them mistrustfully. They were always sniffing around for a weakness, looking to take his position as Grand Master Alchemist. He didn’t have time for their machinations right now.

“My, what is all the fuss in here?” Varys asked in his simpering voice.

“Nothing.” Petyr turned back to his desk, hoping this would signal that he was busy. “I will handle it. You two are needed down at the northern tower. I need you leading—”

“Something is happening,” Melisandre stated, her quiet voice somehow cutting straight through his.

All eyes went to the window, to the smoking remains of the northern tower far below. The rubble shifted, then exploded outwards as a dark shape burst forth from the ground. Enormous wings beat against the air, driving the shape higher and higher into the sky.

“I believe that’s a dragon,” Varys said, quite unnecessarily.

It rose, higher and higher, and _closer_.

“It’s coming this way,” Melisandre noted.

They all dove, just in time, as the window shattered. Shards of glass, wood, and metal flew everywhere. The air inside the study became a hurricane.

Petyr lifted his hand to protect his eyes from the debris and found one large, yellow, slit-pupiled eye staring at him. The dragon’s head was easily the size of the desk it had just crushed, its teeth as long as butcher’s knives. Its nostrils flared. Its breath was unbearably hot, the smell of sulfur and ash. He stared up at it, his mind racing for the proper response.

“Grand Master Alchemist Baelish.” A figured appeared astride the dragon’s head, silhouetted by the waning light outside. It might have been rather majestic, if the figure hadn’t attempted to take a step forward and instead stumbled, tripping, down the dragon’s snot and onto the floor.

Petyr and the two Senior Alchemists stared as Apprentice Sam got to his feet and, coughing, dusted off his knees.

“Oh…S-Senior Alchemist Melisandre and Varys.” He bowed awkwardly to them. “I, uh—it’s good you’re here. There’s, uh…someone who wants to speak with you.”

Another figure appeared, much more agile-footed than Sam. He managed not to fall, standing like a skilled horse rider atop a particularly large mount. He did look intimidating, with his dark hair whipping about his face, grey eyes _boring_ into them all. He looked like an avenging God, and in that moment, the superstitious part of Petyr’s mind, long buried, said that he would not have succeeded in killing this man if he’d tried.

“Bay-lesh,” he said. “Do Ee haeve yyour attaintion now? Wiil yyou leesten?”

He nodded and raised his hands in surrender. It did not even occur to him to use a spell in that moment.

“Goode.” The man turned his gaze to the Senior Alchemists. “Ee howpe yyou wiil leesten as hwell.”

The two of them—Melisandre and Varys—gave each other a look of silent consultation before nodding with am amicability uncalled for by the situation. “We will listen to what you have to say,” Varys said. “Lord…uh…”

“Prince Jon Targaryen,” the man announced. “Son of Rhaegar Targaryen.” He took a more general stance before addressing them all. “Thee hearts grow weak from lack of sunlight.” He pointed out the window, towards the sunset, so as not to leave any doubt in their minds what he was referring to. “Let them touch the sun and they wiil repleneesh. No bluedshed ees require’ed.”

“Interesting,” Varys mused. He raised an eyebrow at Petyr. “I suppose this is the first you’re hearing of this, Master Baelish?”

Petyr frowned at him.

“He knows,” Apprentice Sam said, making his way through the broken furniture. “We tried to tell him and he had us imprisoned for our efforts.” He came to a stop in front of Petyr, slightly winded and not half as intimidating as he seemed to think himself. “What I want to know…is why.”

Petyr looked around, feigning bewilderment. “You truly believed I would take your word without a shred of evidence?”

“Do we lock students away for failing to provide evidence?” Melisandre asked. “Or do we hear them to determine which one of needs to be led into the light?” She raised one slim eyebrow, and Petyr had never hated the woman so much in his life.

“We don’t have time for this,” he growled.

Melisandre and Varys looked at each other.

“How long did it take this young man to relay this information to us, Senior Alchemist Varys?”

“Why, hardly a minute by my counting, Senior Alchemist Melisandre.”

“And how long do you suppose it will take to send a message to the Bloodline families?”

“Using our messenger orbs…” Varys shrugged. “A few minutes to write up the message. Actually sending them is practically instantaneous.”

“You can’t be taking this seriously,” Petyr protested, though he knew the tide had turned. Possibly as soon as that young man with the dark hair had set foot on Citadel soil.

“I think the question is…” Sam stepped forward, and immediately stopped when he realized all eyes were on him. He looked as if he would shrink back, but unlike the time where he had spoken out of turn during the Culling, he gathered himself up without anyone else’s prompting and began again. “I think the question is why you _aren’t_. Taking this seriously, I mean.” He jabbed a finger at Petyr. “Jon found a way to replenish the hearts without spilling anyone’s blood, but you won’t hear it. It’s almost as if you _want_ people to die.”

Only the dragon’s ragged breathing could be heard for several heartbeats.

“Surely,” Varys said, “you aren’t insinuating that our Grand Master Alchemist might benefit from the deaths of several Bloodline family members.”

“Not several,” Melisandre said, “but there is perhaps one in particular.”

Petyr wanted to protest, but he knew, from years of watching others, that he had reached a point where any further words would simply sink him deeper into this quagmire he’d suddenly found himself in. He clenched his fists. He had never been a man of violence—not with his hands, at least—but in that instant, he wanted nothing more than to strangle the interlopers, watch them writhe as he tossed their flailing bodies into the Core.

“King Eddard Stark is a very self-sacrificing man,” Melisandre continued.

“So I have heard,” Varys agreed. “Very self-sacrificing. Very noble. It was a foregone conclusion among the Alchemist Masters that he would offer himself up in the event of a blood sacrifice.”

“Leaving his wife without a husband, poor woman.”

“Poor woman indeed. You know her, I believe, Grand High Master. Catelyn Stark, nee Tully.”

Petyr shook his head.

“Oh, you don’t know her?”

“You’re playing a dangerous game. All of you.” He pointed at them, then swung his hand around towards Apprentice Sam and his dark-haired guest. “All of you. Who do you think you are to accuse me of such things? I, who have given everything to the Citadel, to alchemy and pursuit of knowledge.”

“There’s no need for dramatics, Grand Master,” Varys said calmly, as if speaking to a young child.

“You don’t know what I can do to you.” He lifted his hand. “With a snap of my fingers, I could turn your bones to lead or your skin as thin as sheaves of paper. I could boil the blood in your veins or turn the air in your lungs to ice. I could—”

He felt himself pulled to the ground, as if a rug had been pulled out from under his feet. He found himself staring up at the ceiling of his study, while red shoes under a grey robe circled around him. “I think you’ve been working yourself too hard,” Melisandre’s voice said. “All this stress of dealing with the hearts…it takes its toll on a man.”

He struggled, knowing it was useless. He could hardly do anything but grate his teeth in impotent rage. An immobility spell allowed an alchemist to manipulate the pull of gravity around whoever they cast it upon. He had used the same spell earlier to immobilize the dark-haired young man. Now he wished he had just killed him.

Melisandre stopped her pacing. “Senior Alchemist Varys, inform the Citadel that our Grand Master’s hard work has paid off. He has found what he believes to be an alternate solution to the problem at hand but that, unfortunately, he has worked himself into an illness and is not fit to leave his bed at present.”

“A shame, that,” Varys’s voice agreed from far off. “But I understand. The Grand Master Alchemist really does work so hard for us. I shall inform the Citadel right away.” Footsteps retreated.

“Apprentice Sam,” Melisandre said, “if you would be so kind, please send the Grand Master’s message to the Bloodlines.”

“M-me?”

“Of course, dear. I must stay here and tend to the Master Baelish. I trust you know where the messenger orbs are kept?”

“I…y-yes, I do. I will. Send the messages, I mean. Jon and I…Jon?”

Petyr couldn’t see what was happening from his vantage point, but he could hear the rustling of broken wood and glass.

“Send the messidge, Sam,” the other young man’s voice said. “Ee need to find Theon.”

“Jon, no. We don’t even know where he is. Those pirates…they could be keeping him anywhere.” Footsteps towards the window. “W-we’ll look for him together, after this thing with the hearts is all settled.”

“Ee haeve nowt the time for thaet.”

The heat of the dragon’s breath left the room and a cool air rushed in. Petyr could hear the flapping of dragon’s wings, like the beating of a great war drum.

“W-wait!” Sam’s voice called out. “I can make you a homing orb. To help track him down. But I need something of his.”

“Wiil this do?”

Petyr couldn’t see what the young man meant.

“No!” Sam cried out to make himself heard over the noise. It was clear he was having difficulty maintaining the volume of his voice. “The homing orb would only take you back to where the ore was mined. It needs to be something from him…a hair…a toenail clipping…blood.”

A moment of silence, filled with the flapping of wings and a dragon’s impatient growl.

“Hwat land does Theon call howme?”

“Winterfell!” Sam fairly screamed back, voice cracking. “Isle Winterfell in the Northern Islands.”

“Then thaet is hwere I go.”

A gust of wind signaled the dragon’s departure with its rider. As the wing beats grew fainter, Petyr hoped the beast would suffer a heart attack and fall into the Core before it made it even halfway to Isle Winterfell.


	34. Darkest Before the Dawn

ROBB

 

There was a dragon in the courtyard.

Robb followed behind the armed guards, despite yells that he should stay back. No way. He’d seen the thing approaching from far off, just like everyone else. How could you not? A dragon the size of a small airship didn’t appear on the sky’s horizon every day, after all. The fact that it had decided to land on the palace grounds…well, that was something Robb simply couldn’t ignore.

They burst out into the courtyard to a scene straight out of a fairy tale. Black scales flashing in the sunlight. Claws like grappling hooks dug straight through stone, tearing loose paving and clumps of earth alike. A serpentine neck held aloft a sleek head, almost bullet-shaped in appearance, with eyes that regarded them with a catlike intelligence.

The guards aimed their rifles, and the gesture seemed almost comical to Robb. This creature could kill them all without a thought. You could feel it, just standing there.

“Best stay back, young prince,” Cassel said, putting himself between Robb and the dragon. “We’ll handle this.”

Something on the dragon’s back moved, and all the guards tensed, fingers on their triggers. A human figure rose from between the two great wings. Robb raised a hand to block the sun from his eyes. He saw a young man with a cascade of dark, curly hair and a grim expression. “Who is that?” someone next to him murmured.

“I’yell Wenterfell?” the figure called out.

“What’s that?” Cassel called back.

“This is I’yell Wenterfell in the Norvern I’lands?”

The guards looked to each other in confusion.

“Yes,” Ned spoke up, stepping out from under the protected portico. Jory tried desperately to pull him back, but Ned waved him off. “This is Isle Winterfell. I am King Eddard Stark. And you are…?”

“Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Ee aem told yyou know me as thee Ninth Hair.”

“The Ninth Heir?” Robb jogged forward as well. “Did Theon send you?”

The man blinked, as if taken aback. “Theon?” He repeated the name as if he knew it, and Robb’s heart soared.

The man scrambled over the dragon’s spiny back and slid down one leathery wing to the ground. The guards tensed, but Robb waved them to be at ease. The alchemy orb around his neck—the one Theon had given him for his birthday—was not glowing red, but remained a warm green. This man, whoever he was, did not intend them harm. “Theon _did_ send you, didn’t he?”

The man came forward. “If yyou know Theon, if yyou caere for Theon, yyou moost help me.” His accent was a bit difficult to parse, but Robb understood the gist of it. He needed help.

“What do you need?”

“Theon…” He stopped, as if uncertain what to say.

“What about him?” Robb looked around. “Where is he? Is he safe?”

The Ninth Heir shook his head. Robb felt a chill all the way in the heels of his feet, heavy, locking him in place. The man’s lips moved, and Robb almost couldn’t hear what he said over the buzzing in his ears.

“Taeken.”

 

END PART III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part will be slower in coming, and I apologize in advance. See you in Part IV.


	35. PART IV: LOST AND FOUND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, let's do this.
> 
> Mind the tags, though the main thing will be torture, which is really more of an [agony booth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ydGv5XId4g) type of thing in this fic, so nothing graphic. I will add relevant warnings for chapters with Ramsay being a creep, as he inevitably will be.

LOST AND FORGOTTEN

* * *

THEON

 

He felt empty. Hollow.

Part of him was missing. He felt it with the beating of his heart. His Bloodline, his birthright, had been taken from him. It came to him in waves, the realization that he would never again wield a blood weapon, feel the thrum of excitement as he fought using the power his ancestors had used to dominate the skies. He had been brought down. He wasn’t a Greyjoy anymore.

He felt violated.

He hated how weak he’d been, how easily he’d given up information to his captors. He’d told them everything. Jon, Sam, Robb—he’d sold them all. He would have offered them anything to stop the pain.

He’d rather they’d have beat him, whipped him, cut off his fingers, pulled out his teeth. Maybe then he could have held out long enough to bleed out. It wouldn’t take much in his current state. His captors must have known this too, because they’d used other means.

People often underestimated the pain a torture alchemy orb could inflict, simply because it left no visible marks on its victim’s body. Theon had once been one of those people. Until he’d felt its effects, the unimaginable pain, like burning electricity straight into his brain. It still lingered, a phantom burning in his fingertips and gums. It felt like he’d been flayed and left skinless under a merciless sun.

He’d tried to hold out. Gods, he’d tried.

When they weren’t torturing him, he was locked in a windowless cell in the hull of the ship. Chained at the ankles and wrists and left to lie on the rough floorboards. None of it was out of necessity. Between the blood loss and hours of interrogation, he didn’t have the energy to lift his head, let alone devise an escape.

All he could do was sleep. And hope that Jon and Sam had gotten to the Citadel safely. And that they had sent word to Robb.

He slept, and waited for Robb.


	36. Lost Soul

RAMSAY

 

Greyjoy talked.

They _always_ talked. Eventually.

Greyjoy wasn’t the longest holdout he’d ever had, but he’d done fairly well. Much better than Ramsay would have expected of a simpering fop like him. True, Ramsay had had to alter his methods a bit, as Greyjoy came to him practically on the brink of death from blood loss and wouldn’t have survived more traditional interrogation techniques. A torture alchemy orb was said to induce some of the worst pain imaginable, and all without leaving a mark on the victim.

So, yes, Greyjoy talked, and Ramsay got his answers.

There was no Day Princess. The person Ramsay had been chasing this entire time was a man named Jon Targaryen. His Bloodline allowed him to summon dragons. And while that sounded rather nice and something Ramsay definitely wanted to add to his repertoire, he didn’t see how that was supposed to be the world-saving ability Sansa had made it out to be. Still, a dragon would be a formidable weapon.

Unfortunately, Targaryen had escaped. Greyjoy had put him on another vessel headed for the Citadel, though he couldn’t be compelled to divulge anything more specific. A truth orb in conjunction with the torture orb proved he was telling the truth; he simply didn’t know.

Funnily enough, during interrogation, Greyjoy had asked whether the Citadel had sent them. The Boys had laughed at that. Greyjoy honestly didn’t know who they were or why they’d been pursuing him for the last two weeks.

It gave Ramsay an idea.

He’d learned everything he possibly could from his captive, but now the fun part could begin. And he knew there was plenty of fun to have with this spoiled brat, breaking him and breaking him in. Originally, he had planned to rape him and taunt him with his disloyalty to his Bond Master, Robb Stark. But no. There was something better. Something that might actually get him something else he wanted.

During particularly long interrogation sessions, Greyjoy would reach a state of delirium. He would cry out for Robb Stark. “Please, don’t leave me. Don’t send me away. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I promise!” On rarer occasions, he would also cry out for Jon. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please forgive me.”

These little delirious screams—which Greyjoy didn’t even seem to be aware of—told Ramsay more than anything he’d gotten out of his captive so far. It would just take some thought how he could use it to his advantage.

 

***

 

The whistle blew to announce they’d arrived at the private moorage off the Dreadfort. While Damon ran to fetch the carriage, Ramsay went to fetch his captive. He found him slumped on the floor, his back towards the door. He didn’t even lift his head as Ramsay drew near and knelt down, so Ramsay grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head around.

“Get up. We’ve arrived.”

“Really?” Greyjoy spat. “And here I guessed you needed me to answer more questions. Perhaps keep you informed of how many times I had to get up to take a piss in the middle of the night?”

He still had a bit of feistiness left in him. Given a few months, Ramsay could stamp that out well enough, but for now he let it slide. It was cute, almost admirable in a way.

“You’re not curious about where we are? Or maybe you guessed. Maybe you finally figured out who sent me after you, do you?”

Greyjoy’s nostrils flared and his breathing hitched.

Ramsay leaned in closer. Greyjoy smelled of sweat, piss, dirt, and fear, a heady mix that made Ramsay’s head swim. “Robb Stark sent me.”

Greyjoy gave a single, weary, barking laugh that couldn’t have been worth the energy it took to make. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Do you really think the Citadel sent me?” He laughed and gave Greyjoy’s neck a particularly brutal wrench, just to make sure he was paying attention. “I’ve never even been to the Reach. I’m an Isle Winterfell Vassal, born and raised. Stark blood feeds the roots of my family tree. It’s what gave me this…” He ran a thumb along the sharpened canines of his top teeth. “It’s what let me take your power.”

Greyjoy growled and struggled against Ramsay’s grip. Uselessly, of course.

Ramsay laughed. “My House has served the Starks for generations. You’ve heard of House Bolton, haven’t you?”

“You’re Lord Bolton’s son?” he asked skeptically.

“Roose is my father, yes.”

“Now I know you’re lying. Roose Bolton’s son is dead. I attended his funeral.”

“You attended my brother Domeric’s funeral. I assure you, I am still quite alive.”

“Ramsay…Bolton? I’ve never heard of you.”

“Father doesn’t speak of me much. I am, unfortunately, of…baser birth. Robb promised to have me legitimized if I found the Day Princess before you did.”

Greyjoy frowned. The faintest hints of doubt were creeping into his brain right about now. “That doesn’t…why would Robb send _you_ after me? He trusts me.”

“Apparently not as well as you thought he did.” Ramsay loosened his grip on Greyjoy’s hair; his head clunked against the floor with a sound like hollowed-out wood. “I think you underestimate just how much everyone hates you, Theon Greyjoy.” He reached into his waistcoat. “Robb gave me some of your hair to make this.” He dropped the homing orb.

It rolled across the floor. Greyjoy stared at it, knowing it for what it was. A weak hand reached out for it, as if to feel it for himself, to make sure it wasn’t some alchemist’s illusion.

“We never would have been able to find you without Robb’s help.”

“No. That’s a lie. You got it some other way.”

“And how would I do that? Sneak into the palace and steal it?” He kicked the orb, sending it scurrying across the floorboards. It hardly mattered if it chipped or broke now. Greyjoy was here and he wasn’t going anywhere. “I sent a message to the Starks from Port Broken Arm, telling them the Day Princess had escaped…before I knew your princess actually had a cock. They were extremely disappointed. I asked what I should do with you. Do you know what Robb Stark told me?”

Greyjoy lifted his head, just barely.

“He said, ‘Do whatever you want with him. I don’t ever want to see him again.’”

 

***

 

Damon brought the carriage around. As Ramsay escorted—more like dragged—Greyjoy off the dock, he noticed bits of earth falling away from the island in clods. Poor maintenance. If he reported it to his father, Roose might well give the incompetents to Ramsay to teach them a lesson.

Damon hopped down from the driver’s seat and opened the door, and waited patiently while Ramsay seating himself and his captive inside the cab. Greyjoy leaned his head against the glass window, leaving a greasy smear there.

“Sit up,” Ramsay instructed, slinging his arm around the young man. He could feel the sharpness of his bones under the thin shirt; he’d lost weight in transport. “I don’t want people thinking I’m chauffeuring a corpse around. Especially not my father.” He pointed up ahead, to the grim castle atop the grim hill overlooking the grim village. “The Dreadfort,” he announced. “The ancestral home of House Bolton since we split from the Stark Bloodline. That’s where we’re headed.”

Greyjoy said nothing as the mechanical horse clopped along the dirt country road. Perhaps he suspected Ramsay was trying to bait him.

Upon arrival, the castle was just as gloomy as it appeared. More so because it was meticulously maintained, like a dying woman painting her face to preserve the illusion of health and life, Ramsay had always thought. No servant met them at the door, only Roose himself. Greyjoy’s eyes widened in recognition. If he had not believed Ramsay’s earlier claims, he surely did now.

Just to be sure, Ramsay greeted Roose with a loud, “Father!” as he stepped out of the carriage.

Roose inclined his head, only slightly. “Ramsay,” he said in a voice full of disappointment.

Ramsay ignored it. His father was always disappointed in him. But perhaps not for long.

He motioned to Damon, who dragged Greyjoy out of the carriage and hauled him forward to stand before Roose. Who eyed him with mild disinterest.

“So…you were able to track him down,” he said neutrally.

“Father, the Day Princess is—”

Roose held out a hand to silence him. “There were developments while you were away. We will discuss them in my study.” His eyes slid to Greyjoy and Damon. “Alone.”

Ramsay felt his anger rising. His father should be welcoming home, hurrying him inside so that he might tell the nobles and servants alike the tales of his adventures. But of course, that was a childish expectation. So instead he turned towards Damon. “Dam, take Greyjoy to the dungeons while I ‘discuss’ matters with my father. Make sure he is comfortable.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Damon replied with a bow, then an overeager yank on Greyjoy’s arm. Greyjoy tripped over his feet, unable to keep up with the big man’s pace. Damon snarled and hauled him up, harshly. “Ramsay says I’m not to make you bleed, otherwise you’d be tasting my whip on your back. Get to your feet you lazy shit.”

Ramsay couldn’t help but grin before following Roose inside.

Once they were safely locked within the tomb-like cell of the study, Roose turned to him. “Why did you bring that boy here?”

Ramsay shrugged. “I’m not done having fun with him yet.”

Roose curled his lip in disgust and sat in his red, wingback chair. He did not invite Ramsay to have a seat. “Two days ago, Eddard Stark called a meeting of the Vassals. The second such meeting since you left on your fruitless mission.”

Ramsay opened his mouth, but Roose silenced him with a dismissive hand.

“I will give you this. The person you were tracking, the Ninth Heir, does exist.”

Ramsay stared in stunned silence. Had his father just…admitted he’d been right?

Roose didn’t dwell on this small praise, however, moving along. “King Eddard had some interesting news.” He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Some interesting news indeed, concerning this young man, this Ninth Heir.”


	37. Lost Cause

CATELYN

 

The newcomer. Catelyn didn’t trust him.

For one, he spoke oddly, so that she could barely understand what he was saying. Secondly, he had appeared out of nowhere, unannounced, riding a dragon no less. It seemed a clear act of hostility, even if he had dismissed the creature as soon as Robb had agreed to meet with him. There was an unspoken threat by his mere presence: If you do not give me what I want, if I find you uncooperative in any way, I can bring it back in an instant.

There was an intensity in the young man’s eyes, a single-minded focus that Catelyn recognized. It spoke of an all-consuming desire to further a goal, whatever it might be, consequences be damned. Catelyn recognized it from herself. Only her goal was to protect her family. What this young man’s goal was…she couldn’t be sure.

And lastly, and perhaps chiefly, he brought her the news she’d been hoping for, ever since her husband had returned from the Citadel with the awful news. The newcomer promised he knew a way to save the hearts without a blood sacrifice. The apprentice alchemist from the Citadel had sent a message vouching for his claims. It was enough for her to hope.

And that was the most dangerous thing.

_You mustn’t get your hopes up, Cat_ , she told herself as the young man explained, for what have to be the hundredth time, his plan. He didn’t even seem that interested in it, growing more and more frustrated every time someone asked him to repeat himself. He wanted to be somewhere else, _doing_ something else.

She saw it mirrored in Robb, who stood back, chewing on his nails. His gaze kept drifting out the window, somewhere far away, only to snap back and once again and become hyper-focused on the meeting unfolding in front of him.

“We need to get the sun’s rays to the Heart of Winterfell,” Eddard Stark announced to his team of alchemists and engineers, leaning over a pen-and-paper map of the island. The location of the heart was indicated with a big, red dot, like a pockmark. “Any ideas?”

“Mirrors,” someone suggested. “We reflect the light off of a series of mirrors set up along the tunnels leading into the heart.”

The young man, Jon, shook his head.

“Mee-yoors,” the man repeated, slowly, as if Jon had not understood him the first time. “Liight. Re-fe-lect.”

Jon frowned in a way that reminded Catelyn of her children when they had been very young and learning to speak, angry when they couldn’t make themselves understood. And after all, Jon seemed to understand them better than they understood him.

“For Gods’ sakes, he’s not an idiot,” she said, causing everyone to look at her. “He’s saying your idea won’t work. The heart needs direct sunlight. Isn’t that right?”

Jon offered her a nod of gratitude.

“Do you have a suggestion, my Queen?” the chief engineer asked in a tone that bordered on insolent. She had been dealing with this since she’d come to Isle Winterfell. _Outsider_ , they labeled her. _How can she ever know what’s in our islands’ best interest?_

Well, she was done standing back, allowing others to tell her what she could and could not understand because she “wasn’t a Stark.” Isle Winterfell was her home too.

She strode forward, pushing her way to the table so she could jab a finger at the red dot on the map. “We drill.”

“My Queen?”

“How far down do you estimate it is?”

The chief engineer blinked. “Perhaps half a mile, Your Grace.”

“Then I suggest we get started.” She looked to the alchemists. “Can you create something hard enough to drill through earth to that depth?”

“Of course we can, my Queen,” Alchemist Luwen said.

She turned back to the engineers. “And can you do it? Drill a hole that deep?”

The chief engineer looked like he was about to protest, but Catelyn narrowed her eyes at him.

“We will try, my Queen.”

“That is not good enough.”

“We will, my Queen,” he amended. “Give us…a few days.”

“Better.” She stood. “Get to work. I expect a report by sundown.”

The alchemists and engineers scrambled. Catelyn blew out a long breath. But then tensed as she watched Jon take Robb’s arm and steer him away from the table. She followed, ears on high alert.

“We are done here?”

“Yes,” Robb said. “Yes, we’re done. For the moment.” He lowered his voice, and Catelyn had to strain to hear. “Do you think my mother’s plan will work? My fath—many lives depend on it.”

“I cannot say, but based upon the marvels I have seen of your world, it is possible.”

Robb ran a hand through is hair. “Okay. Alright.” He let out a nervous breath. “Are you heading out to find Theon?”

“Forthwith.”

Robb nodded. Shuffled his feet. “I want to go wi—”

“Robb.”

Both of their heads jerked up as Catelyn made herself known. Robb pulled away from Jon, as if he’d been caught talking to someone he shouldn’t.

“Would you go announce the results of our meeting to the public? Tell them we reached an agreement and are hard at work on a solution we believe will work. The people need to be reassured that we are doing all we can.”

“Cassel can do that.”

“You are going to be King of the Northern Islands. It would be better if they heard it from you.”

Robb screwed up his mouth and looked like he was going to protest further, but in the end, he offered her a polite nod and said, “I will see to it.”

“Right now.”

“Yes, Mother.”

He turned and left with a desperate look in Jon’s direction.

Once he was gone, Catelyn stepped into his place at Jon’s side. “You will be leaving?”

“As soon as I receive the homing orb I was promised.”

Catelyn felt the alchemy orb in her pocket. Master Luwen had finished it quickly enough and given it to her before the start of the meeting. She rolled it between her fingers, contemplating her next move.

In many ways, this was what she had prayed for over the years, that Theon Greyjoy would simply disappear and not return. If she gave Jon the orb, he would come back. Robb could ill afford the distraction, especially with the matter of the hearts unresolved, not to mention his marriage to Margaery.

She had never had a say in her son’s involvement with Theon. _Not a Stark_. She had not had a say when Robb had offered to Bond the young pirate they’d captured in that raid these many years ago. And unlike Sansa’s Bond with Lady, Catelyn could not simply banish Theon to the kennels. In many ways, he had been forced upon her as another child, when all she saw when he looked at him was her father’s murderer.

But now…?

She felt the orb in her other pocket. It would send Jon around and around in circles, keep him busy until long after Robb was married. Theon would remain unfound.

She understood the temptation was evil. It was a sin to lie. It was a sin to hope that Theon was dead and there was nothing of him to bring back. It was a sin, and she was weak for even contemplating it.

“I know I have no right to ask a favor of you,” she began slowly, and Jon cocked his head. “I have the orb and will give it to you, as per our agreement.” She twisted both of them in her pockets. “I only ask that if…when you find Theon, you don’t bring him back here.”

Jon stared at her in confusion. “But your son…he will be expecting our return.”

“Then he will have to learn to live without closure, as most of us do, and move on with his life.”

This seemed to strike a chord with the young man, because his gaze became very intense. “You wish for your son to forget his friend?”

“I would be best for him. It would be best for _you_.” Catelyn’s grip on the alchemy orbs in her pocket became painfully tight. She forced her fingers to relax. “It would even be best for Theon.”

“I think, Queen Catelyn, that it is not for you to decide these things. If Theon wishes to return here, and reunite with your son, I will not deny him that.”

“You will not grant this one request, as a show of good faith between our Bloodlines?”

“I would grant your request, my Lady, if it were mine to grant.” He glowered at her, as if daring her to impugn his honor. His eyes were very much like her husband’s, she thought. As stubborn as any Stark.

She sighed in defeat and pulled the orb out of her pocket. “This is the homing orb you requested.”

He took it from her as if it were made of fragile glass. “Thank you,” he said without any real gratitude in his voice. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t looking to earn his gratitude.

They nodded cordially to each other and turned away from each other, Catelyn to help Ned direct the construction of the drill and Jon to seek out Theon Greyjoy. She would have wished him well on his journey and that she would pray for his safe return, but it was a sin to lie.


	38. Lost Tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to update Ramsay's creep level to a 5 out of 10 for this one.

THEON

 

“Ramsay says I’m not to make you bleed, otherwise you’d be tasting my whip on your back. Get to your feet you lazy shit.”

Theon had neither the energy nor the inclination to obey, and took a small but savage pleasure in making Damon carry him like an oversized child through the narrow, dank corridors of the castle, grumbling the entire time.

The dungeons were not terribly distinct from the rest of the palace; they were just as dank, just as closed-in, and perhaps even brighter, given that they were lit with torches instead of alchemy orbs, which were not on in the upper levels. Damon wove his way through tunnels almost too small for his build as if he knew them quite well. He found a cell and dropped Theon unceremoniously onto the floor. Then, for good measure, delivered a boot to his stomach.

“There are lots of ways inflict pain without drawing blood. I suggest you remember that.”

He then slammed the door, plunging Theon into darkness.

Theon lay on the cold floor for what felt like hours, trying to regain his breath. Except for the stones and the occasional drip of water from overhead, this was no change from his cell on the airship. Left alone, without food or water but with plenty of time to think.

He thought about Robb. And Jon. He thought about what a fool he’d been.

He thought about Ramsay’s lies. The idea that Robb had sent him—laughable. Robb had not turned his back on him. Ramsay was lying. A cruel lie, but not one Theon was even willing to entertain. He still wasn’t sure how Ramsay knew about the Day Princess, or where he had found strands of Theon’s hair to make a homing orb, but he knew that it had not been through Robb. Robb probably didn’t even know of his predicament.

Although…Roose Bolton. Theon had recognized the man right away, remembered laughing with Robb about his pale face and soft voice. Ramsay had called him “father,” and Roose had not denied it, though he looked as if he wanted to. So, Ramsay was who he claimed to be. A Northern Vassal loyal to House Stark. But that didn’t mean Robb had sent him.

He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, lost in his own thoughts and wallowing in self-pity, before he heard footsteps reverberating off the stones. A few minutes later, the door opened, and Ramsay’s bulky figure cast a shadow across the floor.

“My father gave me some interesting information.” Ramsay came in, carrying a lighting orb that flickered on and off. Theon squinted against it as Ramsay knelt down next to him. “I have good news and bad news. Well…bad news for you. Which would you like first?”

Theon just stared up at him.

For a split second, Ramsay’s face contorted in anger that his prisoner was unwilling to play his game. But then his sharp-toothed grin was back, the one he’d worn during torture sessions as he’d leaned in too close to Theon’s face for interrogation.

“I’ll start with the bad. Best to just take the medicine quickly, eh?” He put a sincere hand over his heart. “Robb Stark’s not interested in seeing you…ever again. He made that quite clear when I gave him my report. Apparently, he’s busy planning his wedding to…Morgie Tyrell or something like that.”

“You mean Margaery?”

“Whatever.” Ramsay waved his free hand dismissively. “Apparently the betrothal was made _while_ you were gone.” He sat on the ground and sidled up next to Theon, as if they were two friends commiserating. “While you were out risking your life, Robb Stark was planning his engagement to some foreign bitch. How’s that for loyalty?”

“You’re lying.” Theon wished he could clamp his hands over his ears. Instead, he squeezed his eyes closed, as if that would block out Ramsay’s _lies_. Robb wouldn’t marry Margaery. _I don’t even know her_ , he’d insisted.

“I can show you the wedding invitation,” Ramsay said. “My father just received it today. The Starks didn’t want to announce it until publically…oh, good news. They found out how to save the hearts.”

Theon’s eyes sprung open, but all he could see was Ramsay’s face, the way he looked like a demon as the torch’s light sent shadows dancing across it.

“It turns out…” Ramsay frowned, a look of mock concern. “They didn’t need to make _eight_ blood sacrifices. Just _one_. Your Princess.”

“Wh-what?” Theon stammered.

“They hung him upside, slit his throat, drained every last drop of blood from him, divided it up eight ways.” Theon tried to scoot away, but Ramsay drew him back in with an arm around his shoulder.  “I’m afraid your Day Princess is dead.”

“No.” Theon shook his head. That couldn’t be right. Another lie. There was no way the other Bloodlines would allow something like that to happen. Although, if it meant none of _their_ family members had to die…

Ramsay twirled a strand of Theon’s hair between his fingers. “It’s funny. In the end, you did succeed in your mission. If it weren’t for you, the Bloodlines wouldn’t have been able to get the blood they needed. The Day Princess would still be alive, and the islands would be dying.” He let go and stood abruptly, taking the light with him. At the doorway, he paused and turned. “I guess you really did come through for Robb after all. And look how he repaid you. Dropped you like a hot rock. Huh, shows you what loyalty gets you, doesn’t it?”


	39. Lost Nerve

ROBB

 

Robb urged his horse on faster. Technically, mechanical horses weren’t meant for riding, as the overheated metal against his groin could attest to, but he needed something faster than the flesh and blood animals they kept in the stables. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

He found them right where Sansa had said they would be, outside the city walls, in the field where Cassel took them to shoot. He saw Cassel now—well, the younger one at least—helping Jon out of the carriage and taking a quick step back, as if Jon would summon the dragon as soon as his feet touched the ground.

“Wait!” The guard detail looked up as Robb came roaring towards them in a cloud of steam from the overworked horse. He practically jumped and rolled, and stood, still gasping for breath.

“Prince Robb?” Jory gasped, running to help him. He must have looked a mess—sweaty hair matted to his forehead, dusty clothing.

“I’m…I’m coming with you,” Robb gasped.

“Your mother informed me you would be busy,” Jon said in his strange accent.

“You were wrongly informed,” Robb said back. “If Theon is in as grave a danger as you say, I need to come with you to find him.”

“What of your family?”

“What of them?”

“Do they not need you here?”

“Theon needs me more.”

Jon regarded him for a moment. “He spoke of you, Robb Stark,” Jon said. “You must be close friends.”

For some reason, that sent pinpricks of irritation up and down his spine. Was that what Theon had told him? That they were “friends?”

“I understand your desire to aid your friend,” Jon went on, walking away from the carriage. The guard detail, including Jory, all gave him a wide berth, but Robb followed closely at his side. As he walked, Jon played with the ring on his finger. The ring that looked strikingly similar to the one Theon usually wore. Robb hadn’t noticed it before, but he did now, as a few drops of blood leaked out from underneath it and dribbled to the ground. “But unfortunately, I do not think it possible.”

Robb began a sharp retort, but was drowned out by the roar of wind from overhead. The guard detail shouted, and instinctively Robb dove for cover as shadow as large as an airship blotted out the sun overhead. With the beating of enormous wings, the same black-scaled creature from the courtyard landed on the ground. Its massive claws shredded the soft earth. Smoke billowed from its nostrils. It glared at them all, daring them to approach. Jon did, as casually as if it were a horse.

“You see,” he said, gesturing to the dragon, “I fear there is no room for two riders.”

The dragon lowered its wings, and Jon began to mount it. He really was going to leave, just like that. Robb forced the fear from his body and ran towards the dragon, reaching out a hand to grab Jon’s arm and whirl him around.

“ _Find_ room for me. I…I can ride in its claws. Gods, I can ride in its jaws, if that’s what it takes, but I _am_ going with you.”

Jon balked, as if he were crazy, and pulled out of his grasp. “I cannot take you _and_ return with Theon. The burden would be too great. I know it is difficult and that we are but strangers, but you must trust that I will do all within my power to find your friend.”

That _word_ again.

“Can I ask you something?” Robb said. “Why are you so eager to save Theon?”

“Because I owe him my life.”

“But…what is he…to _you_?”

Jon looked like he hadn’t expected that question and didn’t answer right away. “We are…friends.” Even taking into account his accent, the way he said it was…stilted. Hesitant.

“Theon and I have known each other since we were children.” Robb held up his hand, even though the cut from the Bonding had long since healed. “We are Bound by blood. That makes us closer than brothers. I need to be out there, looking. I need to be there, when you find him.”

_When_. He knew Theon was still alive. Could feel it in his blood. If their Bond had been severed, he would know about it.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Closer…?”

“I…” Robb began. “I’m the one who begged Theon to go find you. I practically ordered him.” He forced his other hand to unclench, saw the crescent-marks in his palms left by this fingernails. “It’s my fault he’s been…” What? Kidnapped? Captured? Spirited away? “I should have gone with him,” he finished softly.

“Why did you not?” Jon asked. It wasn’t necessarily an accusation, but it felt like one nonetheless.

“My family…”

“You were torn,” Jon finished when Robb couldn’t. “Your allegiance to your family, your allegiance to your friend…who needed you more, in that moment. And you chose. You went where you were most needed.”

Robb nodded, overcome with a sense of… _relief_ that someone finally understood.

“For me,” Jon continued, “there is no choice to make. My family is long-perished, my home destroyed by the ages. All I have is Theon. And Sam, too, but he has no need of me now. And so you see, there is no choice to be made.”

The relief vanished, and the feeling of pins pricking him under his skin returned.

“Go, be with your family.” Jon nodded towards the guard detail, and the now-empty carriage that would happily take him back to the palace. “Your Blood needs you.”

“Theon _is_ my Blood!” Robb thrust out his hand again, almost into Jon’s face, causing the other to stumble backwards. The dragon grumbled and snapped its teeth, but Robb ignored it, driven by a fiery anger of his own. “You know what ‘Bound’ means, don’t you? You know about the Stark Bloodline? That hasn’t changed in the last thousand years, has it?”

“The Stark Bloodline…you tame beasts,” Jon said, with all the certainty of someone who only had secondhand knowledge. He shot a worried look to the dragon, as if Robb could suddenly take control of its will and turn it against him.

“When anyone with our Bloodline _willfully mingles blood_ with another—” He put emphasis on that, to assuage Jon’s suspicions. “—we create a contract. Theon and I have such a contract, signed when we were Bound to each other.”

Jon regained his footing but still seemed a bit unsteady. “You…tamed him?”

“No, of course not.”

“My father said that any creature under the power of your Bloodline cannot refuse any order it is given by its master.”

“That…is true,” Robb admitted. “But it’s not the only thing. Theon and I…we can feel each other. His blood runs through my veins, and my blood runs through his. Whatever ‘friendship’ you think you have with Theon…it’s not even close the connection we have.”

Jon considered that a moment, passing judgment. “Theon is not what you would consider a ‘friend,’ then,” he finally said with marked decisiveness. “He is your servant.”

“No! He’s not! He’s not my servant or my slave! He’s my…” His fists trembled. He was either going to punch Jon in the face or— “I love him! I’ve loved him since I was twelve years old. I’ve never wanted anyone else, ever. I used to dream that we would marry each other someday. I used to dream that we would travel together even though I hate airships because then he wouldn’t have to climb into other people’s beds. And I have to tell him all of this, so you see _why_ I have to go with you.”

He drew in a breath and realized he’d rambled himself into breathlessness.

Jon knit his eyebrows together in thought, but his gaze was somewhere on the ground. “I see.”

“Do you?” Robb stepped forward, and the dragon must have read this as threatening, because it snarled and knocked him back with one of its wings. Jon made a motion to help him, but Robb thrust out a hand to stay him. “Because if you’re only rescuing Theon because you think he’s going to confess his undying love for you, you’re going for the wrong reasons.”

 Jon’s face grew dark. He came forward, until they were almost chest to chest. He was shorter than Robb, but only by a hair. “Theon saved me. Now it’s my turn to save him.”

They stared each other down, waiting for who would back down first. It seemed the air had become icy, though the first snows of the year were still far off.

Finally, Robb let out a long breath and the tension broke. Without averting his eyes—still pinning Jon in place with his gaze—he said, “You promise to bring Theon back safely?”

“If it can be done, then I will do it,” Jon agreed. “I will bring him back to you, if that is his wish.”

_Why wouldn’t it be?_ Robb wanted to ask, but held his tongue. “Then go.”

Jon nodded and turned to the dragon.

Robb watched him mount the beast. Then, without a single spoken command, the dragon flapped its wings and took to the sky in the midst of its own gale. Robb continued to watch, hand raised to protect his eyes from flying debris, until both creature and rider were far overhead, mere shadows circling on the earth below.


	40. Lost Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post today! 
> 
> A few things:  
> -Keep in mind that the two plot lines--Robb/Jon at Winterfell and Theon at the Dreadfort--are not happening exactly concurrently, so there is a bit of a flashback in this chapter.  
> -Ramsay's creep rating has been upped to a 7.

JON

 

Jon was surprised at how easily riding the dragon came to him. It wasn’t like a horse at all, but rather commanding a part of his own body. The thought simply had to form in his mind, and the creature obeyed.

At the same time, it wasn’t a mindless obedience. He could feel its presence at the forefront of his own mind, a beast older than anything he could imagine, ancient and wise. It understood him and obeyed because it wished to. It wished to fulfill the promise it had made to his ancestors, to protect them and the blood magic they carried in their veins.

That was the most startling thing he’d realized when he’d first connected to the dragon he summoned at the Citadel. The ability to summon dragons…was _not_ the Targaryen Bloodline, but rather a byproduct. The true power…he was no sure how he felt about it, knowing his ancestors had…

It was meaningless at the moment. He needed to focus on finding Theon.

The dragon reached an altitude and circled around as Jon fumbled to retrieve the alchemy orb Queen Catelyn had given him. Below, he could see every Northern Island, and in the distance, the vague shape of the River Islands. Theon was out here somewhere, either on some island or aboard a ship in this endless sky. Jon held the orb out at eye level, as the old alchemist at the palace had taught him, and trained his gaze somewhere between the glassy surface and the horizon.

The resulting hum was stronger than he expected and nearly knocked him over in surprise. The alchemist had implied that the first sign would be very faint, but grow stronger the closer he came to his destination.

The dragon began in on a southward trajectory, per Jon’s unspoken request. He listened to the orb closely, but couldn’t hear any change. About an hour into their flight, he knew. The hum was growing fainter.

Jon frowned. At a thought, the dragon turned in a wide arc and flew north. The hum grew louder once more.

They passed the Northern Islands, and again the orb faded. No matter which direction Jon urged the dragon, it never led them anywhere beyond Isle Winterfell.

“Is it…defective?” Jon wondered aloud. He looked down to the island passing underneath them again. Could it be? Was Theon closer than any of them suspected?

With another thought, the dragon began its descent, and the hum grew louder as the ground came up to meet them. Jon landed the dragon in an open field, far from the palace grounds, and dismounted. He held the orb out and made a slow circle, until he found the direction it hummed loudest, like a compass pointing north.

It pointed towards the palace.

* * *

ROBB

 

“Would you care for a ride back, my Prince?” Jory asked, holding the carriage door open.

Robb shook his head and hopped back onto the mechanical horse. It hadn’t properly cooled from its frantic ride out here, and he winced slightly. “I’ll see you back at the palace,” he called as he kicked it into gear.

He should get back to the palace, see if he was needed overseeing the construction of the drill. Most likely not. But he needed to keep himself busy until Jon returned.

Jon.

He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the young man. He was pretty, and from the moment Robb had laid eyes on him, he’d suspected. But when Jon had faltered just now in defining his relationship with Theon, he’d _known_. What had Theon told him? How had he gone about it—seducing the Ninth Heir? What had they done together? Kissed? Shared a bed? Had Theon told Jon he loved him?

 _They don’t mean anything_.

How often had he heard that? How often had Theon promised the boys and girls in his port cities were mere distractions?

 _I’ll always point to you_.

The breeze from a gentle ride cooled the sweat on his brow, but his hair was a veritable bird’s nest by the time he reached the palace stables. The stable mechanics took the horse for maintenance and someone handed him a towel, which he used to wipe the dirt from his face and neck.

As he headed in, a voice called, “Prince Robb.”

He turned to see a messenger coming out to greet him.

“I’ve been searching for you, my Prince.” The messenger bowed and presented him with a package. “This just came for you some time ago.”

“Thank you,” Robb said uncertainly, but took it nonetheless. It was a simple package, a large rectangular box with a lid.

He set it on one of the stable’s banisters so he had both hands to untie the twine holding it together. He lifted the lid and managed to catch a mere peek inside just as Jory came riding in on the carriage. “What have you got there?” he called out jovially.

Robb slammed the box closed. “Nothing!” he called back, furiously tucking the package under his arm and running inside. He bypassed several servants, alchemists, and even his mother, ignoring them all as they tried to grab his attention. He flew up the stairs, to his room, and slammed and locked the door behind him. Spent a half-second catching his breath before sprinting to the bed and ripping the lid off the box.

He hadn’t been mistaken. Theon’s black jacket had been neatly folded and laid inside. On top lay a type-written note that read simply: _Catacombs. Come alone_.

* * *

THEON

 

There was a whole array of food in front of him and he hadn’t eaten in days, but Theon’s appetite was thoroughly gone. Not helped that across the table, his captor was noisily helping himself to a drumstick. Theon sat staring at the spread in front of him—cooked game hen, herb-roasted potatoes, dark red wine…the smell of it all roiled his stomach.

He kept seeing Jon’s body, strung up like a butchered pig.

Had Robb been there? Had he watched it happen? Had he _said_ anything? Or had he just stood there while they slit an innocent man’s throat? He wouldn’t have enjoyed it, of course, Robb was not that kind of person, but he might have felt _relief_ as Jon’s blood was collected. Knowing it was over, that it was no one from _his_ family who had to die.

His family. His precious family. They always came first.

“Come now, my lovely.”

Theon looked up to see Ramsay talking through a mouthful of chicken meat.

“I went through a lot of trouble to set this up for you. The least you could do is eat.” He tore off a chunk of flesh and chewed it. “You must be starving.”

Theon didn’t answer. He didn’t have anything to say to this man.

The sound of a chair being pushed back. Boots on a stone floor. He felt Ramsay hovering over him, hands on the back of his chair. He reached onto the table, grabbed a freshly buttered roll, and jammed it into Theon’s face. “Eat.”

Theon turned away.

Ramsay grabbed his chin, roughly. “What’s the matter? Only take orders from your _master_?”

“He’s not my master,” Theon protested as Ramsay forced his jaw open and jammed the roll in. He still refused to take it, and it fell out of his open mouth and onto the floor. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re no good to me dead.” Ramsay gave a barking laugh and turned the whole chair to face him. “Robb Stark doesn’t want you anymore, but I do.” He stroked Theon’s face. Theon shuddered. “I’ll be a better master than he ever was. I’ll never send you away from me, my pet. I’ll keep you by my side at all times, even when I inevitably take another wife. In fact, I’ll reward you. You can have her on days you’ve been especially good for me.” He licked his lips.

Despite having no food in his stomach, Theon felt bile rising in his throat. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” Ramsay played with his hair, the way he had down in the dungeons. “Or maybe _you_ are, for not understanding what I’m offering you. You see, now that Robb Stark no longer wants you, you don’t have anywhere to go. Who would take you in? Where could you go?”

Theon had no answer for that. He’d resigned himself on the day he’d sold his soul to Robb Stark in exchange for his life. He could never go home, because he needed to be near Robb. Being too far away from his…master for too long would weaken him. A month was usually no issue, even two months. But after a season, a sickness would overtake him, slowly, warping his mind and driving him into insanity.

Robb had promised that would never happen, that he would always be there. Theon had never even contemplated what would happen if Robb grew bored of him, set him aside like an unwanted wife.

“Oh, there, there, my lovely. There’s no need to cry.” Ramsay wiped a tear from Theon’s eye he hadn’t even realized was there. “You realize there’s a way to break a Stark’s Bond, don’t you?”

Theon looked up into Ramsay’s face, searching for a sign of trickery. “It’s not possible,” he said. The Bond was…binding. It ended only with the death of either the servant, or the master, which also resulted in the servant’s death. It couldn’t be _undone_. It couldn’t be broken.

“I know a way.” Ramsay leaned in, smiling with his sharp teeth. “Trust me, Theon Greyjoy, and I will break the chain tying you to Robb Stark.”


	41. Lost Time

ROBB

 

Robb checked that the hallway was clear before slipping into the alcove and the hidden tunnel there. The secret way into the catacombs Theon had discovered. Of course Theon had sent the note. Who else would know? But why? Robb couldn’t fathom a single reason Theon would need to meet with him this way, and the uncertainty was near to driving him mad.

In his hurry, he nearly slipped on the slimy downwards-tilted passageway, his hands, already damp from nervous sweat, offering no purchase on the mossy stones. Farther into the darkness he went, until the light from the hallway disappeared and only his little alchemy orb offered any guidance ahead.

“Theon!” he called. His voice echoed back to him. “Are you there?”

No answer.

The sound of sucking wind filled the tunnels, but nothing stirred. Occasionally, the stones overhead would weep drops of water into his hair, which trickled down his temples to mingle with sweat. It was chillingly cold down here.

He drew in a sharp breath when he saw a lantern’s answering light up ahead. He practically slid the rest of the way down the tunnel and raced towards the large chamber beyond. But paused in the archway.

Despite the faint glow of the alchemy lantern, despite the matted hair and torn, dirty clothes, Robb recognized Theon. He would recognize Theon anywhere. What he didn’t recognize was the haunted look on his too-gaunt face.

 “Theon?” Robb took a hesitant step forward. He wanted nothing more than to run and wrap Theon in his arms, but something held him back. Something was wrong. “Theon, are you alright?”

Gods, he was a mess. His shirt hung off his shoulder in rags, exposing a body thinner than Robb remembered. His scruffy-but-deliberate stubble had become a patchy beard. He was too haggard, too dirty, too…small to be Theon. The way the lantern flickered, it felt as if the darkness from the corners was threatening to swallow him up.

“Are…are you alright?” Robb felt like he should run to his friend, wrap him in his arms, but something held him back. “Where have you been?”

“Where’s Jon?”

Robb froze. Had he misheard?

“Where. Is. Jon?” Theon repeated, deliberately.

Robb’s throat constricted.

“Really?” It came out in an exasperated laugh. “We haven’t seen each other in nearly a month, and _that’s_ your first concern?”

 “You know who I’m talking about, then,” Theon said, his voice sharp with accusation.

“Of course I do,” Robb shot back. “Jon, Jon, pretty Jon,” he sing-songed. “Why do you need to know where pretty, pretty, dedicated Jon is?”

“What did you do to him?”

Robb blinked. Did Theon think…?

“Nothing,” he answered, perhaps a tad too defensively. “I never touched him.”

“But you were there?”

“There?” Robb repeated. “I don’t know what you’re even talking about. I’ve been worried sick about you, you know.”

“Between murdering innocent men and marrying foreign whores, I’m surprised you even found the time!”

“What!?” Robb blurted. “Murdering…? What are you _talking_ about?”

“Jon.”

“What about him? I didn’t murder Jon. Is that what you think?” He had to laugh. Where had Theon gotten an idea like that? Did he really think Robb was so jealous that he would murder one of his lovers if given the chance? “Jon’s perfectly alive.”

Theon’s eyes went wide. He staggered back a step. Gods, he looked so fragile. “Are you lying to me?”

“No. Jon’s alive, and he’s out there—” Robb pointed towards the ceiling “—looking for you right now.”

Theon reeled backwards, as if struck. “He’s not…? He’s alive and he’s…?”

“Looking for you,” Robb repeated. He took a tentative step out from under the arch. “He’s worried about you, Theon. We both were.”

At that, Theon’s face hardened. “And yet _he’s_ the one out looking for me?”

Robb bristled. “We both agreed he could travel faster on his own.”

To his surprise, Theon threw his head back and laughed, a wretched sort of laugh that reverberated off the walls. “I understand,” he said, regaining himself, though a few giggles still escaped. “I understand how it is, when you’re busy with other things. After all, I should be glad you even bothered to send Jon after me, when you’ve got a shiny new toy right in front of you.”

“Shiny new _toy_?”

“Margaery,” Theon said.

Robb felt the color draining from his face. How could Theon know about that? No one was supposed to know. The announcements weren’t supposed to go out until… Oh Gods, what must Theon have thought?

“Theon, I can explain. I never—”

“I understand it, though, I do. Bloodlines.” He swept his arm around dramatically. “It’s aaaall about Bloodlines, isn’t it? Passing them on. Perpetuating your lineage.”

“It’s not like th—”

“You’re tired of fucking into something that’s never going to yield any fruit.” Theon made a crude thrusting motion with his hips.

“Theon!” Robb warned.

“But I’m glad you’re willing to keep me around. Maybe you and Margaery can have me sleep at the end of your bed like a pet.”

“Shut up!” Robb snapped.

Theon’s mouth clamped closed at the command.

Robb couldn’t even feel bad in that moment. Some spell was broken, and he burst forth from the archway, fists clenched and shaking at his sides. “Shut up,” he repeated, “and let me explain! You nev—”

He stopped abruptly at the odd look on Theon’s face, a silent, accusing glare filled with…hatred? Almost unthinkingly, Robb felt for the truth orb he wore on a chain around his neck. He pulled it from under his shirt. It glowed an angry red.

He had barely had time to register what that meant before hands clamped over his shoulders and yanked him backwards into the shadows. He struggled, instinctively, his mind blaring, _Trap_! He lashed out, but he couldn’t see his attackers. More than one. They’d been lying in wait, readying for him to move into ambush position.

“Fight all you want, Prince Robb,” a voice hissed in his ear. “No one’s here to help you now.”

His head was wrenched to the side, and he caught of glimpse of Theon’s horrified face in the lamplight. Horrified, but he made no move to help. He’d been the bait. He’d known this would happen but hadn’t warned him.

“Why?” Robb called out to him.

There was no answer.

Something sharp latched onto his neck and he screamed.

Theon screamed as well, and through a foggy haze, Robb was vaguely aware of him falling to the ground and thrashing about, as if in great pain.

Robb squeezed his eyes shut as part of him slipped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, am I going to get shit for this one.


	42. Lost Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay's creep points are now officially maxed out.

SANSA

 

Sansa woke with a start to a hand clamped over her mouth. She instinctively tried to scream, but the hand gripped tightly, painfully so, and someone hissed a sibilant “Shhh!” into her ear.

She was hauled from her bed, dragging the sheets with her as she fought back. She was dressed only in her nightgown. The intruder didn’t seem to care for her modesty, though. He pulled the blankets away, tore a long strip from them with a horrible rending sound, and used it to bind her wrists together in front of her.

Who was this person? She caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight filtering in between her heavy curtains. He was tall, with blond hair. She didn’t _think_ she recognized him, but then again, it was very dark in the room. How had he gotten into her room? Was this a kidnapping? A coup?

_I wish Lady was here!_ she thought as he practically carried her along. With one hand on her mouth and the other on her upper arm, he hauled her from her bedroom with ease. The hallways were empty. Where were the guards?

If this was a kidnapping, her kidnapper was going in the exact wrong direction to make a quick getaway. He must not know the layout of the palace very well, because he was heading straight to…

He kicked open the doors of the throne room, and Sansa’s eyes widened to find her mother and father kneeling on the ground, arms bound behind their backs and pistols aimed at their heads by two other men she didn’t recognize. Catelyn looked up as Sansa was unceremoniously shoved forward. “You promised that if we cooperated you wouldn’t involve the other children!” she cried, struggling to get to her feet.

The thin man standing behind her smacked his gun roughly against the side of her head, sending her sprawling out on the floor.

“Mother!”

“Cat!” Ned crawled to her side and tried his best, without the use of his arms, to help her up. “We followed your orders,” he said, glaring at the figure seated on the throne. “There’s no need for Sansa to be here.”

Sansa glanced over and saw that she did recognize one of the men. The man she had met in the garden in the rain, Ramsay Bolton. He was seated in her father’s chair, sideways, legs propped up on her mother’s chair. At his side knelt Robb and…Theon? What was going on here? Why was Robb’s shirt covered in blood?

Ramsay picked at his teeth. “Nonsense. This is a family affair, King Eddard. In fact, we’re just…”

He trailed off as the door opened again and yet another man came in, huffing and panting.

Ramsay’s eyes gleamed and he sat up straight. “Ah, Alyn, there you are. About time.” He smiled expectantly. “Well…where’s the other little Stark bitch?”

“Sorry, boss,” the man said. “She got away.” He held up a bloody hand. “Got a nasty bite on her, that one.”

Ramsay’s smile dissolved into a frown. He leapt from the seat and marched down the dais. “Then what are you doing here?” He delivered a brutal smack to his henchman’s face, and Sansa winced as he stumbled backwards, gripping his jaw. “Get out there and _find_ her.”

“Y-yes, boss,” the man agreed and ran from the room.

The doors slammed behind him and Ramsay let out a defeated sigh. “Incompetence.” He paced back and forth a few times before clapping his hands together and addressing the family. “I guess we’ll make do. We’ll deal with the other kiddos later.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sansa cried. “I thought you were a gentleman!”

Ramsay let out a hearty laugh. His henchmen joined in. He paced over to her and grabbed her face with one meaty hand. “I’m surprised you have _any_ thoughts in that empty little head of yours.”

“Don’t you touch her,” Catelyn snarled and tired to lunge for him.

While the thin man grabbed hold of her, Ramsay rolled his eyes and pulled a pistol of his own out of his belt. “Damon, would you do the courtesy of gagging our guests? I’ve grown tired of their yapping.”

The man holding Sansa stuffed something into her mouth, something that tasted like an old sock, and tied it in place with another bit of cloth around the back of her head. She gave a few muffled cries but realized quickly how futile it was. She was forced to her knees next to her parents, while Ramsay made his way leisurely back to the dais, stuffing the gun back in its holster.

“You want to know what this is all about?” He grabbed a fistful of Robb’s hair and dragged him down the steps.

“Don’t…don’t hurt him!” Theon screamed.

To Sansa’s surprise and horror, Robb screamed back, “Fuck you!” He struggled against Ramsay’s grasp, but his hands were also tied. He didn’t seem to be fighting back so much as trying to get a Theon. “This is your fault, _you traitor_!”

Traitor? What…?

No, that couldn’t be. Theon was Robb’s best friend. She’d known him since she was a little girl. There was no way he’d…betray them? And anyway, he was tied up like the rest of them, wasn’t he? He wasn’t working _with_ these men, surely?

“Robb, you have to believe. I never thought—”

“Shut up!” Robb shouted. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. I want you to die.” He made a vicious lunge at Theon. “Die, die, die, die, die!”

Theon stared at him as if he’d been struck dumb. But he didn’t fall over dead.

“That’s a direct order!” Robb thrashed about in Ramsay’s grip like a wild animal. “Why won’t you die!?”

“He doesn’t answer to you anymore.” Ramsay threw him harshly to the ground in front of them. Sansa could see the tooth marks on his neck, still dribbling blood onto his shirt. She gave a muffled scream as Ramsay kicked him in the ribs—once, twice, until the fight had gone out of her brother and he lay there, panting heavily.

“Stop!” Theon gave voice to her screams.

Ramsay stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was also panting, having worked himself up beating Robb into submission. Through that, he smirked at Theon, and Sansa saw a visible shudder run through his body.

“This is insane,” Theon said, sinking back onto his haunches. “You can’t keep the entire royal family hostage indefinitely.”

Ramsay’s smirk grew into a full-toothed grin. “I can with the Bloodline I just acquired.” He bent and grabbed Robb’s hair again, hauling him up to his knees. “Isn’t that right, Robby-boy?” Robb’s eyes were unfocused, and he seemed on the cusp of consciousness.

“You…” Theon grunted as he tried to get to his feet. Ramsay looked thoroughly unthreatened and didn’t even try to stop him. “You already have the Stark Bloodline. You don’t need to take all of theirs.” He looked at the kneeling Starks, but Sansa couldn’t help but notice that he wouldn’t meet their eyes. She had no idea what was happening, what any of them were talking about. Take their Bloodline? That wasn’t possible, was it? A new terror gripped her heart.

But Ramsay just chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not going to take their Bloodline, you idiot. I’m going to use Robb’s power to Bind them—all of them—to my will.”

Theon’s eyes widened. “No.”

“I’ll have a veritable flock of servants, all Bound to serve me and carry out any order I give them. All tied to my life force. If anyone gets the bright idea to take me out, all the others die as well.” He smiled, like a child contemplating what he wanted for his birthday. “And the best part is, nobody will know. It will cause quite an uproar all over the Northern Islands when King Eddard announces that he and his wife are stepping down _and_ renouncing Robb Stark as their heir, in favor of sweet Sansa and her betrothed.”

 Ned and Catelyn immediately began protesting; Sansa could only imagine what curses they were hurling at Ramsay from behind their gags. She had never seen such an unladylike expression on her mother’s face.

For her part, Sansa was frozen in terror. Just the thought of being married to this…horrible man made her feel as if snakes were crawling all over her body. She didn’t know how to react when he caressed her face; the clammy wetness of his hand made her want to die.

“You’ll give me plenty of powerful heirs, won’t you, Princess? And your sister as well. And perhaps even the Queen, before I give her to my father as a token of my appreciation for all of his…tutelage.”

His…father? She’d just seen Lord Roose not even a week ago, and while he’d been his usual cold self, she never would have guessed that he had a hand in _any_ of this.

“D…don’t worry, Sans,” Robb slurred. His head rolled back and forth. “I won’t let him…let him touch you…”

“You’ll hold her down for me if I order it.” Ramsay dropped him to the ground and slammed a foot into his back. Robb grunted but didn’t fight back. “Now…you’re going to tell me how to do the Bonding or whatever it’s called.”

Laboriously, Robb lifted his head and gave Ramsay and incredulous look. “Why…would I tell you that?”

“Because…” Ramsay pulled something out of his pocket. Sansa squinted, but it seemed like an ordinary alchemy orb to her. “I don’t need your dear sister’s _mind_ intact.”

The orb started to glow, and a pain unlike any she’d ever imagined before shot through her, into her. It tore into the marrow of her bones, contorted her muscles. Her jaw clenched around the gag in her mouth, and a scream lodged in her throat. The world was white. White hot pain. She convulsed on the floor, screaming. It felt like hours.

_He’s going to torture me into insanity!_

“Stop!”

The pain abruptly stopped. The worst of it, at least. It still lingered, from her core all the way to the tips of her hair. Her face was covered in tears and snot, and if it weren’t for the gag, she would probably vomit. As she lay there, trying to catch her breath, she realized it was Theon who had come forward.

“There’s no need for that,” he said. “ _I’ll_ tell you how to do the Bonding.”

 Ramsay grinned in triumph.

Sansa shook her head. No, he couldn’t. The pain…it was unimaginable, but she could endure it. She would, for however long it took. She would gladly go insane if it meant this monster would never get his hands on her or her family, not the way he wanted.

She tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I only ask that you use it on Robb first.” To her horror, he gave Robb a kick in the side. It wasn’t a terribly powerful kick, since his arms were bound behind his back and he couldn’t leverage himself correctly, but the look of pure malice on his face was shocking. “I want this piece of shit to know what it’s like to serve, for once.”

It felt like he’d kicked _her_ , like he’d driven all the air from her lungs. She had known Theon almost all her life, but she’d never taken him for such a coward.


	43. Lost Mind

THEON

 

Robb stared up at him with as much hatred as he could muster.

When Ramsay had broken their Bond, Theon hadn’t realized how much it would hurt. More than the torture orb, more than losing his Bloodline. It had felt like someone was cutting away a part of his soul. A part of him that had been there for so long he’d taken it for granted. A Robb-shaped part of him.

And now Robb hated him.

Maybe he deserved it.

Most definitely.

“Making a Bond servant is easy,” he said nonchalantly. “You just need to have contact with your subject’s blood and…bam, Bond.”

“Contact?” Ramsay asked.

“Like, say…from a bite wound.”

Ramsay’s eyes widened in realization. “Are you saying—?”

“That when you stole Robb Stark’s Bloodline, you also Bonded him to you.” Theon nodded.

Robb’s anger had turned to confusion. He’d never been one to catch on quickly.

“It can’t be that easy,” Ramsay said.

Theon nodded towards Robb’s prone form. “Have you tried giving him an order?”

Ramsay thought about it. “I suppose not.”

“Then go. Give it a try.” He stared Robb intently in the eye, willing him not to fuck this up.

Ramsay scratched his chin, tilted his head back, and then said, “Okay. Robb Stark, get up.”

To Theon’s immense relief, Robb did. Even making a show of resistance, which was good for theatrics but not really how it played out, in Theon’s experience. When Bonded, you followed the person’s order quickly, almost without thinking. There was no resistance.

Robb’s show seemed to please Ramsay, though, because he was grinning from ear to ear, like a giddy child, as Robb struggled to his feet.

“Robb Stark, jump.”

Robb did, a bit awkwardly, but that could be chalked up to his hands being tied behind his back and the brutal beating he’d just gotten.

That also pleased Ramsay, and he bore a truly maniacal grin as his hands began undoing his belt. “Robb Stark, suck my cock.”

Here Robb really dropped the ball. Instead of immediately falling to his knees, he shot a sideways glance at Theon. Not that Theon blamed him, but that was a big tell for anyone familiar with the Stark Bloodline that he wasn’t truly under Ramsay’s thrall.

Luckily, Ramsay wasn’t familiar enough to pick up on it, and anyway, he seemed rather more pleased by the chorus of wails from the three gagged Starks. “You should wish him luck,” he said, jeering especially cruelly at Catelyn. “How he does on this decides on if I keep him around or not. I mean,” he turned to address Robb, still oblivious that his command had not taken hold, “you have to have something to recommend you, right? Otherwise, why would our little Greyjoy keep jumping back into your bed?”

Catelyn’s eyes bulged, and she made a noise like an angry cat.

“Or maybe you simply ordered him,” Ramsay continued as he fumbled with his belt. “That would explain why he jumped at the first opportunity for freedom. Is that it, Robby-boy? Have you been forcing your little slave to do filthy, filthy things behind your dearest mommy’s back?”

“Never,” Robb spat.

“What are you waiting for?” Ramsay unbuttoned his pants. “Get on your fucking knees and suck my cock. That’s an order.”

Robb just looked to Theon with wide, horrified eyes, as if to ask, “What do I do now?”

“Can I…?” Theon spoke up, stepping between Robb and Ramsay. Ramsay glowered at him. “I just think, since I’m the one who told you how to work the Bond, I should get to go first.” He fought against his repulsion and leaned into Ramsay, smiling coyly. “You did say you would reward me for being good.”

Ramsay pursed his lips. “I suppose I did.” He snapped his attention back to Robb. “Alright, Stark, belay that last order. You’re going to do whatever Greyjoy tells you to do until _I_ tell you to stop.” He furrowed his brow. “Can I do that?”

Theon nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure, to be honest. Robb had never ordered him to follow someone else’s orders. Because Robb would never do that. He shuddered to think how his life would have unfolded if he’d been Bonded to someone like Ramsay from the beginning.

“Good,” Ramsay stated, putting his hands on his hips. “What do you want him to do?”

Theon had to think. Not about what he really wanted Robb to do, but about what would be most advantageous.

“Robb Stark, I want you to suck _my_ cock.”

Catelyn made the angry cat noise again, but surprisingly, it was Sansa’s protest that came out the loudest. The look of utter betrayal in her eyes—the girl who’d always harbored a secret crush on him precisely because he was no good for her—hit him in a way even Robb’s hatred didn't. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this, and yet he’d dragged her and her family into it.

He struggled to harden his face and kept his eyes on Robb. “I want you to do it here, in front of your family. Show Mommy what a good little cocksucker you’ve been for me all these years.” He couldn’t even take pleasure in the smirk he directed Catelyn’s way. “You can start by getting on your knees and undoing my trousers. Oh,” he added, as if he’d just had a realization, “you’ll need your hands for that.”

“How stupid do you think we are?” Damon grumbled.

But Ramsay waved him off. “He’s under my control. And anyway, he’s unarmed and we hold his family’s life in our hands. Go ahead and cut him free.”

Still grumbling, Damon pulled a knife out of his boot and sliced the ropes binding Robb’s hands behind his back.

“Also…” Theon raised his arms as best he could. “Could you untie me as well? I want to hold his head while he chokes on my cock.”

Damon gave Ramsay a skeptical look.

“I can’t do anything,” Theon said with a disarming grin. “Didn’t you know, when you absorbed Robb’s Bloodline, you also absorbed his Bond with me. I can’t go against any order you give me either.”

“Is that true?” Ramsay asked.

It was complete bullshit, but he must have sounded convincing enough, because Ramsay seemed to actually be contemplating it.

Theon nodded.

Ramsay nodded towards Damon. “Cut him free too.”

As Theon rubbed the rawness from his wrists, Ramsay hooked his thumbs into the loops of his pants. His belt was still undone, and his pistol hung looser at his side than it should have.

“I want to try this out,” he mused. “Theon Greyjoy, Robb Stark, kiss and make up.”

Robb and Theon stared at each other for what felt like forever, but hopefully was just a heartbeat for those watching. Then, Theon leaned in, and this cued Robb to lean in as well. Their lips met. It was like kissing a stranger. Even when Theon wrapped his fingers in Robb’s hair to bring him in closer— _for show, of course_ —Robb was stiff, unyielding.

_This will be the last time we kiss_ , Theon realized with a certainty.

He tried to make peace with that as they parted, pulled away. A moment passed as they caught their breaths.

Ramsay clapped. “Good show. Now, Theon Greyjoy—”

Before he could issue another order, Theon pushed Robb out of the way, spun, and grabbed the pistol from Ramsay’s holster. It all happened in one smooth movement, and he brought the weapon to point at Ramsay’s smug face. He pulled back on the trigger.

Nothing.

The bastard hadn’t bothered to cock it beforehand.

Theon’s practiced hand went to cock it, but before he could aim and fire again, an elbow caught him in the jaw and sent him sprawling to the ground. The gun went flying from his hand. Stars spun behind his eyes, and he looked up to see Damon towering over him.

“I knew you’d try something stupid,” he growled.

“Theon!”

Robb made to run to his side, but Ramsay snapped out a quick, “Don’t you move!” and Robb froze, wavering between stepping back and moving forward, looking unsure if he should continue the farce or not.

Theon winced as Ramsay’s boot came down on his wrist, pinning him. “You disappoint me, Greyjoy. Was everything you just told me a lie to get me to untie you? That wasn’t very smart. Now I’m thinking you don’t deserve a reward at all. In fact, I’m thinking you deserve a punishment.”

The boot pressed harder into Theon’s wrist, and he curled his fingers.

“Damon, give me that knife.”

“No!” Robb burst forward but Damon quickly lifted him, one-handed, off the ground. Robb’s legs kicked out uselessly. “Don’t you hurt him,” he gasped. “Please don’t.” Even after everything, Robb was still trying to protect him.

Ramsay took Damon’s offered knife. “Don’t worry, Robby-boy, I’m not even going to use this knife on him.” He made a sharp cut on his palm. A knife began to form—sloppy and ugly, but unmistakably the Greyjoy Bloodline. “I think losing a finger or two to his own Bloodline will teach him to lie about these things, don’t you?”

Theon squirmed as Ramsay forced his fingers to uncurl.

“We’ll start with your middle finger, eh? Sort of…symbolic.” He lowered the knife.

And a shot rang out.

Damon fell over, a bullet wound in his throat.

As he gargled and choked on his own blood, everyone stared at Sansa, Ramsay’s pistol trembling in her hands.


	44. Lost Footing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Ramsay POV chapter, so, uh, expect some rude language. Among other things.

RAMSAY

 

The dumb bitch just stood there, eyes wide, as if she didn’t even realize what she’d done.

In a flash, the other Boys had their pistols aimed at her. “Stop, you idiots!” Ramsay hollered. “We need her!”

She had the audacity to turn his own gun on him. Albeit, her arms were shaking and she hadn’t reloaded the chamber, but the _gall_. She’d need more breaking in than he’d thought. At any other time, he might have been thrilled at the prospect, but she’d chosen the absolute worst time to rebel. He’d had the Starks dismiss the guards for the evening, but they would be back come morning. The moon was already sinking into the horizon, and he still hadn’t Bound any of these idiots to him.

He marched towards her. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to pull back the trigger with no success. He knocked the gun from her hands and grabbed her by her thin, pale throat. Her pulse pounded wildly against his palm.

“Just for that,” he hissed, “I’m going to have my boys shoot your brother full of holes.”

Her eyes widened and Greyjoy cried, “No!” and the Starks began pleading through their gags. But Ramsay didn’t get a chance to enjoy any of it. Because at that moment, there came a great, resounding bang at the doors.

“Your Majesties!” a voice on the other side called. “Are you in there? We heard a gunshot.”

The Boys looked to each other uncertainly.

“We’re coming in!” The thudding came again, and the doors bent inwards against the locks.

Shit! The guards. But how…?

“Wh-what should we do?” Skinner asked.

Ramsay’s mind spun. He’d started out the evening in complete control. Where, during the course of the night, had he lost his grip? Roose’s words kept echoing in his mind: _You are an idiot. You lack any form of self-restraint._

The wood of the doors started to buckle and all Ramsay could think was, _Roose was right_. He’d fouled this up badly, very badly, but where?

Robb was helping Greyjoy to his feet. Them! The two of them. He should have killed them. A white hot rage flared inside of him. _No, I won’t let those two cocksuckers get the last laugh_!

The doors cracked and a dozen armed guards poured in. A dozen rifles aimed at him, but also his human shield. He pulled Sansa in. Her tiny body was useless to block him from the guards’ gunfire, so he jammed his blood knife up under her chin. “Nobody move,” he said, “or I’ll give our pretty little princess a second smile.”

The guards held their weapons but had the intelligence not to shoot.

“It’s over, Ramsay,” Robb Stark announced. “The only way you’re getting out of here alive is if you surrender.”

Still gripping Sansa tightly, Ramsay made his way to the wide window. It was his best chance of escape, though he was not looking forward to jumping several stories to the ground.

“Easy now,” the captain of the guard said, holding out his hand as if he were soothing a frightened beast. And that rankled Ramsay any more. “There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt.”

Get hurt? He’d kill them all right now if he could.

“Don’t try to follow me,” he said, jamming the knife into Sansa’s throat until she squealed through her gag. “I’ll slit this bitch’s throat, I swear. I’ll—”

Something rammed into him at waist-height. The air left him as he staggered backwards, one arm dropping the blood knife, the other dropping Sansa. As the momentum carried him towards the window, he reached out blindly for her, trying to snag a fistful of that red hair to keep his human shield within his grasp.

It happened in slow motion. Her wide eyes, strands of her hair slipping through his fingers. The back of his head smashing into the window. Glass shattering all around him, seemingly without sound. He hung suspended in midair for what felt like a full minute.

Then the tiles of the sloping roof were cutting into his face, along with millions of shards of glass. He slammed his eyes closed as he and the weight around his waist rolled together along the roof. When they finally came to a stop at the eaves, he could taste blood in his mouth. His skin felt like tattered ribbons hanging on his body.

Groaning, he opened his eyes.

Greyjoy looked about how he felt, if not worse. His face sported a thousand bleeding cuts, and his eyes roved around in a manner suggesting his brains had been rattled.

“You dumb fuck!” Ramsay spat, just as a gunshot went off and a bullet whizzed by his head, missing him by mere inches. “Shit!” He grabbed Greyjoy by the arm and hauled him up. He wouldn’t be a very good shield—Ramsay doubted anyone inside would think twice about shooting him at this point—but he was better than nothing. Besides, he thought as he jumped down to the ledge below, perhaps no one would look too hard in the predawn light to realize how truly worthless his hostage was.

The guards were firing in earnest now, but Ramsay was well out of their range. The ledge overlooked the courtyard, where several stable hands were saddling horses for an early morning ride. Of course, the shattering glass had startled them all, and they looked up in bewilderment. That would be his escape. A mechanical horse would have been better, faster, but it wasn’t as though he had a plethora of choices at the moment.

He dragged an unresisting—and, he suspected, unconscious—Greyjoy along until he found a suitable place to finish the jump to the ground. Still farther than he would have preferred, but at least the Starks’ meticulously kept hedges broke his fall.

The stable hands continued to stare at him as he disentangled himself and Greyjoy from the bushes. The guards were still firing and shouting, and the horses were clearly panicked. Ramsay formed another blood knife and put it to Greyjoy’s throat as he hobbled towards the stable workers. “Give me your horse or this man’s life is on your hands!”

The shorter one obediently handed the reins of his horse over, and Ramsay smirked. _Looks like you still have one use left, Greyjoy, and that’s to get me out of here_.

By now the guards had grown the sense to cease firing, but by the sounds of shouted orders, Ramsay guessed they would be after him within moments. He mounted the horse, dragged Greyjoy’s lifeless body up and over the pommel of the saddle, and dug his boots into the horse’s side. The animal shot out of the courtyard.

He ran into guards at the gate and again held his blade to Greyjoy’s throat. They were more than happy to open the gate for him after that, though perhaps not so much if they’d known Greyjoy was a coward and a traitor.

He urged the horse onwards into the city, his mind racing. Where to go? He could try to hide somewhere in the city, one of the shops or public houses. Or he could take advantage of his head start and make a clean break for the Dreadfort.

He heard Roose’s words again: _I don’t trust you. I wish you weren’t mine._

He needed to get back to the Dreadfort. He couldn’t let his father learn of what had happened from another source.

He pushed the horse through the main thoroughfare, towards the city walls. Greyjoy bounced lifelessly in his lap. Perhaps the boy was already dead. In his current state, it would not take much for him to bleed out. It was no loss for Ramsay; a corpse was easier to transport and served just the same purpose if no one else knew the hostage was already dead.

The cobblestone streets gave way to packed dirt as he passed under the city walls. Large stretches of fields unfolded before him, and a single straight road leading towards the pinkening horizon.

The dawn of a new day.

Where would he go from here? Probably take his father’s airship, fly somewhere far away. The Starks would send bounty hunters after him, but it might be fun to evade them, play with them. After all, he now had the Greyjoy Bloodline and the Stark Bloodline, plus a host of other minor Vassals’. Surely he could make a decent living as a pirate.

Just as he was contemplating this, a fierce wind kicked up, strong enough to nearly knock him from his horse. A sound like the beating of enormous wings filled his ears, and he squinted against the gale at the dark shape swooping down on them. Then he really did fall off his horse, screaming as the dragon roared at him, chased after him with its maw gaping open. The smell of rot and decay bellowed up from the creature’s throat, and Ramsay saw his death coming for him.

Then the monster stopped. It snapped its jaws shut and watched him through slitted eyes, nostrils flared. Waiting for something.

“Theon?”

Ramsay’s head shot up to see the figure sliding off the dragon’s back. That dark, curly hair—he’d only caught a glimpse of it at the crumbling tower. Now he had a face to put to the name, Jon Targaryen, the Day Princess.

“Theon!” The Princess ran over, hand holding a homing orb aloft in his hand. He froze, several steps from where Ramsay lay with Greyjoy’s body cradled in his lap. So, that was why the dragon had stopped. From the hardening look on the Princess’s face, he seemed to recognize Ramsay. “Yyou,” he hissed, taking a menacing step forward.

Ramsay raised the blood knife, cursing at how his hand trembled. “Stop!” He lifted Greyjoy’s limp head and stuck the tip of the knife to his throat.

The Princess’s eyes narrowed. “Release hem.”

“I…I want a guarantee that I’m walking away from here.”

The Princess’s lip curled. “Ef yyou release hem now, Ee weel gave yyou five manets to run.”

Ramsay blinked. Were those…actual words? Or was he dealing with a moron?

The Princess held out a hand, all fingers spread wide. “Five. Manets.”

“To run,” Ramsay finished. He supposed he understood that well enough. He didn’t like it. “Listen here, you retard.” He dug the knife into Greyjoy’s skin, and Greyjoy groaned. Oh, so he was still alive. All the better. “How bad do you want this fucker back?”

He was hoping very badly from the way Greyjoy had screamed out his name during interrogation.

And he could see it on his face. The way his brows folded, the way his fist tightened around the homing orb.

“Right.” Ramsay grinned. His breath was coming back to him, along with his confidence. Princess Jon had a dragon, sure, that was a major advantage on his part. But Ramsay had something he wanted. The question was: “What are you willing to give me in exchange for him?”

“Five manets before Ee keel yyou.”

“No.” Ramsay wagged his finger. “No, no. You see, he’s Bound to me. Do you know what that means?” He forced a laugh. “That means if you kill me, he dies too.”

Princess Jon stared at him. “Ee do nowt believe yyou.”

Ramsay repositioned the knife so that the first rays of the sun glinted off its blade. “Test it.”

The Princess’s eyes locked onto the blood knife. “That weapon…”

“That’s right, I stole it from our friend here. I _stole_ his Bloodline. Just like I stole the Stark Bloodline. He’s Bound to me like he was Bound to Robb Stark. You want our dear Theon to walk away from this alive, I’m walking away too.”

The Princess pouted at him. He was a pretty pouter. If Ramsay hadn’t been ready to shit himself with a dragon breathing down on him, he would have noticed sooner.

The Princess took a step back, shaking with a sort of defeated rage. “Release hem and Ee let you leave.”

“Ah, no, no.” Ramsay pushed himself to his feet, no easy task with one hand holding the knife and the other holding Greyjoy’s dead weight. “I want something in _exchange_.”

The Princess narrowed his eyes. “Hwat?”

“You.”


	45. He Who Hesitates is Lost

JON

 

Jon didn’t know how to respond. “You want…?”

“I want your Bloodline,” the pirate said. “I want your dragon. I want you.”

Jon didn’t understand how that worked, how someone _stole_ a Bloodline. But there the man was, holding Theon’s knife to his throat. And if he truly had stolen the Stark Bloodline and used it to Bind Theon to him…

“No,” Jon answered at last, “you don’t.”

The man grinned, and Jon caught a hint of sharp teeth. “I think the ability to command a dragon— _that_ dragon—would be the perfect getaway.”

“That is not the ability of my Bloodline.”

The man scowled. “Would you speak normal? I can’t understand a fucking thing you say.”

“My Bloodline,” Jon tried again, “does not summon dragons. It makes the caster a new island.”

A moment passed, as the man’s scowl slowly faded away and understanding dawned. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, are you saying you can make your own island? As in…a floating landmass? A new one? Your own?”

Jon nodded.

“Fuck,” the man repeated. “Yeah, I want that. I…” A manic glint overtook his eyes. “I’ll call it Isle Bolton—no, don’t want Roose taking any credit. As if he’d have _half_ the balls it takes to stand where I’m standing now. No, it’ll be Isle Ramsay.”

“You don’t—” Jon tried to explain, but was interrupted by the distant thundering of hooves. Both he and the man turned to see a cloud of dirt coming towards them from the city in the distance.

“Shit!” the man cursed. He turned back to Jon, forcing Theon’s head back, exposing the length of his throat. “As you can see, I need to get off these islands, and quickly, so if you would stop stalling…” He twisted the tip of his knife against into the soft skin under Theon’s chin.

“Stop!” Jon threw out a hand to stay the action.

This man would kill Theon, he had little doubt. He was a cornered animal…no, worse. A man who knew he was going down in flames and would do anything to take as many others with him as possible.

And Theon…he was in a bad way. Thinner than Jon remembered, hair matted and dirty, clothing ripped and hanging from his body, bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts on his face and hands. And pale. So pale he looked more corpse than living human. In fact, only the slight bobbing of his throat gave any indication that he _was_ still alive. He hadn’t given any indication that he was even conscious and might now, even as they were speaking, be slipping away.

Jon pulled on his hair. He could see shapes moving in the approaching cloud of dust—men mounted on the mechanical beasts he’d seen around the palace grounds. He now understood the man’s hurry; he did not intend to be taken by the authorities.

“Hurry up!” the man barked, and drew a shallow, red line across Theon’s throat with the knife.

In the end, it wasn’t a decision at all.

“I’ll do it,” he announced. “But only if you promise not to use the Bloodline.”

The man smirked. “Sure.”

“You must promise! The dragon will listen to you, but you must not make yourself a new island. You won’t survive it.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Alright, I promise. Now hurry up.”

Jon turned to the dragon. “Don’t interfere,” he said. “That is my wish.”

The dragon stared at him with its ancient gaze. It understood.

Jon crossed the distance separating him from the madman and his hostage. As soon as he was within arm’s reach, the man dropped Theon and lashed out, grabbed Jon by the shoulders and yanking him in, holding him tight, chest to chest. Jon squirmed with discomfort as the man buried his face into the crook of his neck, then yelped when he felt a sharp pain there.

Lips sucked at his flesh, drawing blood from him. Jon arched his feet and bucked his hips, wholly unable to control himself. The sensation was so overwhelming and…not entirely unpleasant. As blood rushed from the wound in his neck, it also rushed…elsewhere. He was only aware the man had stopped when he heard a soft chuckle in his ear. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

Jon’s head rolled back.

“I think I’m going to keep you. It would be nice if Greyjoy survives too…two little pets to decorate either side of my throne.”

“Throne…?” Jon murmured.

The arms released him, and he staggered back on unsteady legs.

“In the palace I build on my new island,” the man said, striding towards the dragon.

Jon quickly snapped back to himself. “No!” He grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled. “No, you promised. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll die!”

“You expect me to believe that?” The man pushed him back, violently and stood in front of the dragon. He raised his arms wide. “Dragon!” he bellowed before Jon could stop him. “Make me a new island.”

The dragon regarded him. Its nostrils flared.

“Yes, I’m sure!” the man screamed in response to some unspoken words between them. “Do it!”

The dragon raised one of its claws and laid the tip against the man’s chest.

“No!” Jon yelled. “Theon!” He ran and fell at Theon’s side, cradling his limp body. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wept into the matted hair as the madman doubled over, clutching his chest. How could he explain that he’d been trying to save his life and instead had given this madman the means to end it?

“What…?” The man held out his hands and stared at them in horror as they began to crystallize, turning his skin to a hard amber that spread up his arms. He shrieked and flailed about. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”

“I told you not to,” Jon said, suddenly overcome with anger. “I told you not to make yourself into a new island.”

The madman’s eyes widened, even as the amber crept up to his neck. “ _Into_?”

“The Targaryen Bloodline is to make the caster an island, as I told you,” Jon snarled.

“Into,” the madman repeated. Then he threw his head back and laughed as he was lifted off his feet. The harsh, mirthless sound quickly ended when the amber overtook him entirely and his whole body was enveloped in a sphere of light.

Jon closed his eyes against the harshness of it and hugged Theon to him. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, waiting for the faint heartbeat to fade as the madman slipped into death and took Theon with him. “I’m so sorry.”

“J…on?”

Jon opened his eyes to see Theon looking up at him, sky-colored eyes unfocused and lined in dark circles. A weak smile on his face.

“Why are you…sorry? _I’m_ sorry.”

Jon breath caught in his chest. He ran his hands along Theon’s face, as if to make sure he was real, but quickly stopped when he felt the tiny shards of glass still sticking out of his skin. “You…you’re alive. But how? He said—”

“Ramsay lies,” Theon interrupted, though his voice was weak. “I learned that too late myself.”

Jon felt tears well up in his eyes. He hugged Theon to him as the guards’ horses thundered closer. Overhead, the light that had enveloped the madman, Ramsay, broke apart, revealing a man-sized alchemy orb—the beating heart of a new island.


	46. Find It in Your Heart

THEON

 

Theon woke up in a great deal of pain. And also to the most unexpected person leaning over him: the Queen of the Northern Islands herself, Catelyn Stark.

“Am I in hell?” he asked. His throat felt like it had been shredded with rusty nails.

Catelyn frowned. “You’re very much alive, Greyjoy, which you owe one hundred percent to my care. So I suggest you show a little gratitude.” She cuffed him on the ear.

“Ow!” He sat up, realized he was in a bed. And not just any bed, but _his_ bed. In his own room. In Winterfell Palace. The last thing he remembered was a series of vague images—breaking glass, Jon holding him, Ramsay bursting into light. “What happened?”

“You were brought back here,” Catelyn said, standing. “Alchemist Luwen believed you were beyond saving by his means, and so…” She inclined her head.

“You…saved me?” His eyes went to her hand, which was wrapped in cloth around the palm.

She fiddled with it as she spoke. “Your cuts were easy enough to heal, but regenerating the blood you lost _was_ a task, even for my Bloodline.” She looked up at him. “You’ve been out for three days.”

“Three days!”

“How are you feeling?”

He stopped to think. Took inventory of himself. He was sore like he never could have imagined, but other than that… “I can’t complain.” Not after all he’d been through.

A small smirk graced Catelyn’s lips. “Very well. I shall inform Robb you are awake.”

She turned to go.

“Wait.”

She paused.

“Why did you…after all I did…why would you…?”

She let him linger awkwardly for a moment before looking over her shoulder. “You saved my son. You saved my daughter. I will never forgive you for what happened the other night, Greyjoy, but I realized…” Her fist clenched around the bandage. “You are not the man who killed my father. You are an imperfect human being, as are we all, and you deserve the chance to make amends for your actions before you stand before the Gods for your final judgment. Besides…” She frowned again. “Robb begged me.”

 

***

 

A few minutes later, Theon heard the unmistakable sound of boots running down the hall. The door flew open with a bang. Jon stood there, panting, looking at Theon as if he were a mirage that would evaporate in a moment.

“The Queen said you had awoken.” He took a few drunken steps into the room. “You almost died.”

“So I heard.”

“I _thought_ you had died.”

“Same.”

Jon came closer, revealing a flushed face. “I am glad you are alive.”

“Same,” Theon said again. “I mean, I’m glad that I’m alive, but I’m glad you’re alive too.”

Jon took his hand. “I was frightened that I would be left alone again.”

His eyes were so sincere, practically brimming with tears. Theon felt a knot in his gut.

“Jon, I—”

The door creaked open, and both turned their heads to see Robb standing there, looking weary and much older than the boy Theon had left behind those weeks ago; it felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

Of course his eyes went straight to their joined hands. It was Jon who pulled away quickly though.

“Of course,” Jon said, “I realize now that my naiveté may have clouded my judgment of your feelings towards me. I knew that you were a man with a wandering heart, and yet I allowed myself to…” He trailed off, smiling sadly. As if the mistake had been on his part. “Nevertheless, I am glad you are alive.” He nodded to Robb. “I will give you two a moment alone.”

He left, his steps far more measured than when he had entered.

Robb stood at the threshold of the door for a long moment, then gradually made his way in, eyes downcast, and sat on the edge of the bed without saying a word.

Theon wanted to pull the covers over his head. He wanted to jump out the window again. “How…how is Sansa doing?”

“She’s shaken,” Robb answered, “but she’s unhurt. Well enough that she personally put out the order to arrest Roose Bolton.”

Theon stared into his lap as he took that in. “I’ve missed a lot,” he said. “What happened after…?”

“Well…” Robb shifted awkwardly on the mattress. “After Arya escaped, she went to alert the palace guards. Sansa’s gunshot alerted them to where we were. And then Ramsay escaped, and the guards went to track him down. And I guess he’s a heart now.”

Theon’s head shot up. “What?”

Robb didn’t look up, but gave a defeated shrug. “I’m not entirely sure. There’s a big, disembodied island core floating above Isle Winterfell, and I guess it’s causing some trouble because it keeps attracting loose rocks and dirt to it. Jon says it’s trying to build a new island around itself.”

“Jon,” Theon repeated.

Robb looked towards the door, as if Jon would magically reappear there. “He wouldn’t let the guards take your bo—take you. When they first found you.”

Theon ran a hand through his hair. Someone had washed and combed it. “I…I’m sorry I thought you killed him. I shouldn’t have believed Ramsay’s lies. I should have known you wouldn’t allow something like that to happen.”

“Who says I wouldn’t?” Robb lifted his eyes. “I’d do anything to protect the people I love.”

The moment hung tensely between them.

“That’s not why you wanted to break our Bond, is it.” It wasn’t a question. “You believed me when I told you Jon was alive. It was Margaery.”

Theon swallowed. At this point, after all he’d done, any explanation he gave would sound like an excuse.

“Talk to me, Theon.”

“I…” He fiddled uncertainly with the blankets. “When I heard that you were setting me aside—”

“I didn’t set you aside,” Robb said.

A hint of the anger that had led him to betray Robb came rushing back. “Bullshit.”

They stared at each other. He expected Robb to be angry, but he just looked hurt instead.

“Let’s not kid ourselves,” Theon went on. “If you married Margaery, you wouldn’t still come to me too. And even if my family did want me back after serving a rival family for eight years, it’s not like I _could_ go back to them, physically. The truth is…” His voice broke, and he gritted his teeth against any tears. “The truth is, you can get rid of me so easily, but I can’t get rid of you.”

Robb sat silent as he took that in. Finally, he shook his head. “You have it exactly backwards.” He smiled, joylessly. “I love you so much, Theon, but I seem to be so easy to replace.”

Theon straightened up defensively. “If you’re talking about Jon, nothing happened between us.”

Robb’s glare was like a slap to his face. “What of the others? The boys and girls you met while you were traveling?”

“I told you before, they meant nothing to me.”

Robb let out a defeated sigh. His next words were weary, devoid of any real anger. “But it meant something to me.”

They both stared at their hands, their laps, anywhere but at each other. Theon’s stomach seemed to sink deeper and deeper as he realized how much Robb had been suffering in silence. He’d always known that his trysts caused Robb discomfort, but he’d chalked it up to jealousy. He’d never imagined he’d been hurting him, making him feel _replaceable_.

“Why…didn’t you tell me?” he asked at last.

“I was scared,” Robb answered in a small voice. “Scared that you would replace me for good if I couldn’t accept that part of you.”

“Gods, Robb.”

“I knew the only reason you always came back to me was because we were Bound.”

“Bullshit.” Theon threw back the covers and got up on his knees. “How many times did you have to order me into your bed?”

Robb’s eyed widened. “Never!” he cried, fist clenched. “I _never_ did that!”

“How many times did you order me to kiss you? Blow you? Tell you how perfect you were?”

“I never—”

“Exactly,” Theon interrupted. “You never had to order me to do any of that, because it was always something I wanted to do.”  His hands trembled to reach out for Robb, but he didn’t dare. “I know I’ve done terrible things. Even before Ramsay, I wasn’t always the greatest guy. But I never lied to you. I never did or said a single thing I didn’t mean.”

There was a silence. There seemed to be many silences in this conversation. Which was good, Theon realized. It meant they were processing what had gone unsaid between them for years.

Robb didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked disappointed.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “Margaery’s not going to want to marry me now that I no longer have a Bloodline.”

“You might still be able to pass it on.”

“Do you think that’s a chance she’s willing to take?”

The implication hit him like a bullet.

“Fuck!” Theon ran his hands through his hair. “I never meant—I-I mean, I’m sorry, Robb. You have to believe me, I wasn’t trying to ruin your—“

“I didn’t want to pass it on,” Robb said with a shrug.

Theon stared at him incredulously.

“It’s really awful when you think about it,” he continued, something like a fond smile on his face. “I mean, being able to control someone. It’s not something I ever wanted. The only good thing that ever came from it was that I was able to save your life. And even then, I wish I’d been able to do it another way.”  He lifted his head and looked out the window. “I understand why you did what you did. I can only imagine how much you must have resented me all this time.”

Theon didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to correct him, because the truth was…yeah, he had resented him.

“I tried to give you as much freedom as I could.” Robb chuckled mirthlessly. “I suppose that’s the real reason I never talked to you about any of this before. I didn’t want to put any restrictions on you. I didn’t…” This throat bobbed, and his voice came out thick, choked. “I didn’t want to be your master. Ever. I only ever wanted to be your friend.”

“You were,” Theon said softly. “I still love you.”

“I still love you too,” Robb answered, just as softly.

More silence.

“What now?” Theon asked.

Robb sighed and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not going to have you arrested or punished. You saved my family, never mind that you were the one who put them in peril in the first place.”

Theon winced.

“You also saved Isle Winterfell. Possibly the world. You found the one person who knew how to rejuvenate the islands’ hearts. Using the information we got from Jon, we were able to drill to the Heart of Winterfell earlier today.”

“Did it…?”

“It worked,” Robb confirmed. “The power is back on. We’ve had no reports of outages or further land erosion since the noonday sun hit the heart.”

“Oh.” After all he’d gone through, the way Robb delivered it sounded so…anticlimactic. It didn’t feel like he’d saved the world. “That’s good.”

Robb nodded. “In consideration for your actions, I’m offering you a pardon.” He stood. The mattress sprang back. “Now that you’re healed, I think it would be best for everyone if you left the Northern Islands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, there's only one true chapter left (and an epilogue), but I still haven't put the finishing touches on it. I'm keeping things a little ambiguous, but I'd like to take a quick, informal poll on what sort of hope spot I should go with:
> 
> A. Throbb: Give the boys a second chance to get it right.  
> B. Greynow: Romantic adventures on the high skies.  
> C. None: Theon is a strong, independent man and he don’t need no man.  
> D. Other: Write your suggestions in the comments below.
> 
> Next update will be on Sunday.


	47. Found Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for casting your votes. And the winner is...

THEON

 

So there it was. Everything he owned and worth taking packed into two chests, waiting for him as he entered the cabin. Roomier than his last gig—more comfortable too, if you counted his time in the brig of Ramsay’s ship.

He opened the lid of the smaller one and pulled out his black coat. A few minor tears here and there, and it had lost a couple buttons, but overall in remarkably good condition. Perhaps they could stop by Port Broken Arm on their way to the Expanse, have Gendry fix it up.

He slipped it on over his shoulders, pulled his arms through the sleeves, smoothed the lapels down. Waited. Waited to feel like Theon Greyjoy again. But he didn’t. He felt like someone he didn’t recognize. Theon Greyjoy wouldn’t have done the things he’d done. And now he didn’t have his Bloodline. He didn’t have a home. He didn’t have Robb.

With a sigh, he closed the chest and made his way up to the top deck. He found Jon standing at the stern, watching the dock workers attaching the heavy chains to the hull. The alchemists had outdone themselves, creating an enormous cage to hold the new heart so that it could be hauled away, somewhere where it wouldn’t continue to steal Isle Winterfell’s landmass.

Theon watched the amber heart, glowing brightly in the cage. He still couldn’t believe that it had once been a person, let alone Ramsay Bolton.

“Come up with a name yet?”

Jon glanced over at him.

“For your new island? New Dragon Isle or something like that?”

Jon shrugged. “It could take years for it to form a full island.”

“You have time to decide, then.”

“I suppose.”

“What Bloodline do you think it will give the children born there?”

Jon quirked and eyebrow.

“I mean, Ramsay had all three of our Bloodlines. Which one do you think it will favor?” He stroked his chin. “Maybe a mix of all three. Or it’s randomly assigned. Or maybe it’s Ramsay’s original power.” Now _that_ was a terrifying thought. “Or maybe something entirely new.”

“If we’re lucky, nothing at all,” Jon said.

Now it was Theon’s turn to quirk an eyebrow.

“They are not needed for the wellbeing of the islands. The world would be better off without them. I am glad to be rid of mine.”

“Are you? Truly?”

Jon stared at him in that intense, unnerving way he had. “Even though it was a farce, I do not regret giving my Bloodline to save you. I would do it again.”

Theon dropped his gaze to the deck. “I wish I deserved it,” he murmured. He gripped the railing. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Jon let out a long breath through his nose. “You didn’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t tell you the truth. About Robb.”

“No, but I recognized your nature fairly quickly on my own.”

Theon winced. _Your nature_.

“I can only blame myself,” Jon continued, “my own ego. I allowed myself to be flattered by your attentions.”

The real Theon Greyjoy would have commented on how his attentions were worth being flattered about. But this fake Theon Greyjoy, this pretender, didn’t feel like teasing Jon. He’d played with this boy’s emotions enough.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Jon turned from his spot. “I hope that we can still be friends. We have a long journey to the Expanse.” He cracked a small smile. “And you did promise to help me look for Dany.”

Theon cracked a small smile in response. “I did, didn’t I?”

The workers finished chaining the cage, testing it for stability; they would be cleared to leave port in not too long. Leaving Port Winterfell, for the last time. Theon’s smile faded away.

Jon noticed. “Are you alright?”

Theon sighed. “I need to clear our departure with the harbor master. Call if you need anything.”

Jon nodded sympathetically.

Theon made his way towards the bow. In truth, there wasn’t much to clear; he just needed a last look at the palace that had been his home and prison for the last eight years. No matter how hard he stared at it, he couldn’t force any sense of closure. Robb had given him a gift, a second chance he likely didn’t deserve, and yet it felt like a punishment. A banishment.

“Theon!”

There was a commotion on the dock. Theon looked down to see someone forcing their way through the crowd, leaving angry dock workers in their wake.

A head of red hair appeared among all the drabness. Robb, carrying a rucksack, elbowed his way to the gangplank, halted, and threw a salute. “Theon! Er, Captain Greyjoy, I mean. Permission to board, sir!”

Theon leaned heavily over the railing. “You’re not serious.”

“Permission to board, sir!” Robb repeated, louder.

“Uh…p-permission granted.”

Robb bolted up the gangplank. He came to stand in front of Theon, revealing himself to be dressed in a simple shirt and trousers for traveling.

“Robb, what are you—?”

“I’m coming with you.”

Theon shook his head. “You know we’re headed to the Expanse.”

“I don’t care where you’re headed. I want to be there with you.”

Theon nearly reeled over the side of the ship. “What? But why?”

 “Because I’m not ready to give you up.” Robb stepped in closer and dropped his rucksack. “I realized it last night. This whole…thing. It’s an opportunity.”

“No, Robb, don’t call my fuck-up an—”

“A chance to start again,” Robb interrupted, “as equals.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do!” Robb grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in. “I love you, Theon. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted. And now we can be together, without politics or marriages or any of that. If…if you’ll have me.”

“What about your family?”

“They don’t know. I left a note, renouncing my title as heir to the Northern Islands, now that I have no political worth.”

“You do—”

“Sansa will be a better ruler than me,” Robb interrupted. “She still has her Bloodline. And as heir, she’ll have her choice of eligible bachelors.”

“But your parents.”

“They’ll understand, in time. Besides, I can send them messages whenever we stop at a new port.”

Theon didn’t feel good about that at all, but it seemed Robb refused to be guilted into changing his mind. “I thought you hated airships.”

Robb leaned in and pecked him on the lips. “I’ll get used to it.”

Theon stared at him, uncomprehending. “Alright,” he relented. “You can come. You’ll probably change your mind by the time we reach Port Broken Arm, but I can put you on a vessel back home fairly easily.”

“My home is wherever you are.”

Theon sighed in defeat but grabbed Robb’s rucksack. “We’ll see. In the meantime, let’s get you situated. There’s not much free room, so I’m afraid you’ll have to share a cabin with me.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

They ran into Jon heading down to the cabins as well. Jon took a long look at them, eyes straying on Theon’s arm around Robb’s shoulder. What was going through his mind? At last, he gave a convincing smile. “Welcome aboard.”

“Ah…” Theon said stuttered. “The two of you have met, right?”

“We’ve met,” Robb agreed. He pulled away from Theon to address Jon. “I wanted to thank you, again, for saving our islands.”

Jon simply nodded.

There was no denying, it was awkward. The three of them, together on a small airship, potentially for a long time.

Suddenly, Robb surged forward and threw his arms around Jon. “Thank you for saving Theon,” he said, hugging him as tightly as if they were brothers.

Jon looked startled, unsure what to do. He patted Robb on the back.

Theon coughed, giving Robb the cue to stop his assault on Jon.

As Robb stepped back, Theon tossed one arm over Robb’s shoulder and the other over Jon’s. Bringing them all in. “Let’s go below deck and hash out a few things,” he suggested. “As captain of this ship, I don’t want any miscommunications between us.” He looked from one to the other. “Clear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: a short epilogue to wrap everything up.


	48. EPILOGUE

DAVOS

 

“Sir! Sir!”

“One moment, lad.” Davos waved the worker off. He couldn’t afford to be distracted at this critical moment, with the drill just breaking through from above. The entire cavern shook with the force of it, breaking loose clods of earth onto the Heart of Storm’s End. Gods, he hoped this worked. It had to. The Northern Islands reported it did, and a similar account had come out of Isle Vale.

 “Sir!” the worker—Edric, Davos recalled—insisted, tugging on the overseer’s sleeve. “I really think you should see this.”

“One moment,” Davos repeated, more sternly.

Bits of the cavern’s ceiling collapsed away as the nose of the drill finally broke through. So far, so good. Now the moment of truth. The drill made a horrible whirring sound as it retracted back towards the surface. Davos stood holding his breath, and Edric’s grip on his sleeve became tighter.

Then, light came streaming in.

Every worker threw their hands up to shield their eyes as the heart erupted in light, as brilliant as the Core itself. A sound like the earth itself sighing filled the cavern, and when the light subsided, the heart glowed a magnificent yellow. Davos had worked under King Baratheon for fifteen years, and he had never seen the island’s heart in such a brilliant color.

It had worked. Praise the Gods, it had—

It seemed he didn’t have time to absorb it, because Edric was back to pulling on his sleeve. “We found something,” he said, dragging Davos along, “when we were excavating.” He led him to an offshoot of the main cavern, so small that they both had to duck to get through.

They emerged into a high-ceilinged area with another tunnel branching off from it, also recently excavated, it appeared.  The excavation team had abandoned their picks, however, and were currently circled around something. Davos pushed his way through them to find a young woman lying on the ground, curled in on herself. Cloud-white hair fanned out about her head. Her face, beautiful and peaceful in sleep.

“She was here when we broke through, sir,” Edric explained. “No doors we could see. Can’t explain it, but the chamber must be as old as the island itself.”

One of the engineers gasped, and everyone instinctively backed away as the woman’s eyes snapped open. They were the eeriest shade of purple.

She lay very still for a moment, as if trying to gather her bearings. Nobody dared speak until she sat up, looking around.

“Ma’am…” Edric began.

She frowned. “Hwat year es et?”

“The…year?” Davos and Edric looked at each other. “1862, my Lady.”

Her thin, pale eyebrows drew together. “War hath ended?”

“Uh…”

She started to stand.

“My Lady…?” Davos reached out to help her, but she ignored him and made for the exit. “My Lady!” Davos called after her. Should he stop her? Arrest her?

“Sir!” someone shouted from the branched-off tunnel. “There’s another one over here. A man.”

Davos waved to Edric. “See to it.” Then followed after the woman.

He found her standing in front of the heart, staring up at the hole in the cavern’s ceiling.

“Excuse me, my Lady, but who _are_ you?”

She didn’t look away, the light from above falling on her face and hair. “Danaerys Targaryen,” she answered, “Day Princess.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone for reading and leaving kudos or comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I am updating in chunks, I may miss some inconsistencies. If you find a continuity error or plot hole, feel free to let me know and I'll patch it as best I can. Comments and concrit are always welcome. Thanks for reading.


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